The Recruit
by permanentlyExhaustedPigeon
Summary: Zyan was a terrible music student, but chance turned him into a notorious revolutionary. An encounter with a Crystal Singer puts him on the path to joining the Heptite Guild, and he determines to forge a peaceful life. All may not be well on Ballybran, though, and his former life might be more relevant to his new one than he thought... (Sequel 'The Only Game in Town' also on FFN).
1. Chapter 1

__The final book of the Crystal Singer trilogy, Crystal Line, left the Heptite Guild much-reduced and also in turmoil – Lars Dahl, aided and abetted by Killashandra and a few mostly-new characters, was pushing through sweeping reforms to try and save it, and in the closing chapters we start to see them take effect.__

 _ _It got me to thinking (in 1990-something): how would things have looked a few years after Crystal Line? In 2018 I finally got around to finishing what I started.__

 _ _If this has intrigued you and you're about to read on, thank you for taking the time.__

 _ _(PS: Please abide by the current rules of this forum and the estate of Anne McCaffrey regarding fanfic).__

 _ _ADDENDUM: I've just completed a sequel, "The Only Game in Town". It will be online soon. Many thanks to the readers who left such lovely feedback on this story.__

\- o O o -

The prisoner raised his eyes to take in the imminent sunset. The primary, like the prisoner, was nearing its end - it glowed deep orange, staving off it's descent into red gianthood and the inevitability of nova. Unlike the prisoner, however, there was a fair chance that it would see the end of this day. There were a few clouds, flat, thin and insubstantial, just above the horizon. They were rose-tinged, foretelling good weather on the morrow. The prisoner couldn't really bring himself to care whether or not it would rain tomorrow. Given his current situation, he found he wasn't even bothered with the question of whether there would even _be_ a tomorrow.

They hadn't condescended to make this trial even semi-legitimate. The judge was military, despite the fact that, legally speaking, the prisoner was still a student of the performing arts at Dutari District College (he had never received any expulsion papers - for all he knew, he was still getting his student grant). There was no jury - unless the definition of jury was significantly widened to encompass the niche normally occupied by 'howling mob'. The courtroom was not closed - it was open. It was in fact the Ancestor's Plaza in uptown Djielonia, and it was packed to the limit with the aforementioned jury.

The only thing that lent even a thin veneer of respectability to the proceedings was the presence, behind him, of the FSP rep. She was dark-skinned, slim and diminutive, but Zyan had already seen her knock one overly officious member of the State Security Force on his behind and leave another wincing in pain. She couldn't have provided a greater contrast to the Djielese, who were, by and large, a very pale people. Zyan - despite everything going on around him - wondered briefly if this had been a factor when the FSP considered who to hand this assignment. Her ship - which Zyan understood to be in some way alive - towered behind them, a solid symbol of Federal authority in this currently less than optimally civilised part of space. He briefly let his eye run over it's pilot again, and, to his (totally hidden) surprise, she returned his look with a wink. Zyan looked away expressionlessly, and faced the crowd once more.

From what little Zyan remembered of his foreshortened studies, he knew it wasn't easy to stage manage ten people, let alone a few thousand. Despite this, the Protectorate authorities had seemingly assembled every loyalist, reactionary and anti-revolutionary capable of shouting and waving a makeshift cudgel that the city had to offer. The crowd, expertly manipulated by a government that spun every fact and put a bias on every story, wanted him dead. He stood accused not only of crimes he didn't commit, but also crimes that _no-one_ had committed. The FSP - which, after all, still held veto rights to the charter on this strife-torn embarrassment of a system - had made it clear that there were to be no summary executions, only exiles. The Protectorate had taken a great many prisoners of war and had been gleefully show-trialling them on live TV for a fortnight before the FSP stepped in. Almost all of the survivors were now transported safely away.

Almost.

Zyan. Black Zyan, as he was dubbed by the press - the last figure of importance from the troubles left to go through the circus. The FSP - conscious of a certain lack of resources in the volume of space around Djiel - were allowing them this last and most hyped show trial. Arranged between crowd and spacecraft was a podium, upon which were arrayed the essentials of a courtroom, and a massive screen showing Zyan handcuffed to the defendant's dock. Despite his shackles, the Prots considered him dangerous enough so that at least a dozen security personnel were on the stage, too. They didn't look too inclined to come to his aid should the razor-wire fence holding the crowd back somehow fail. This was a possibility that seemed more likely by the minute - it looked like a cobweb holding back an entire swarm of wasps.

The judge - a black-suited figure on a little raised platform of his own - spoke up ponderously.

"Zyan Ezekiel Jarvis, you have been determined guilty of five minor and one major violations of the Protectorate War Crimes Act," the official began. "The viciousness and barbarism of your various acts of terrorism - including but not limited to the attack on a major hospital in the Kiyon District - cannot be understated. You have figured largely in one of the darkest hours in Djielese history, and-"

 _For 'major hospital', read military headquarters_ , Zyan thought heavily, and yawned pointedly. Unless the Prots were in the habit of arming their hospitals with surface to air missiles, directed energy emplacements, and fighter cover. Oh, and building them into the side of mountains. With lots of soldiers outside. And no medical personnel.

That was why he was here. The raid had grabbed headlines, even off planet. The Protectorate HQ hadn't always been a military installation. Before the Prot brass - very much in violation of interstellar law - moved in and took over, it had been the planetary communications centre. One interesting fact about the old Djiel comm centre was that it had possessed the largest piece of black crystal ever to leave the surface of wherever it was that black crystal came from, as well as a veritable fortune in lesser equipment. Punching the place out with a jury-rigged railgun mounted on a hijacked Prot shuttle, destroying that crystal and all it's little friends, had earned Zyan the unwanted prefix of 'Black', a place on this podium, and, although he'd only just recently found this out, a starring role in the FSP news for the duration of the hostilities - any revolutionary of note was 'a possible associate of Black Zyan'. If rumour was to be believed, there was even a (badly researched) vid and an interactive holo-drama based upon the raid. It probably was the stuff of derring-do and adventure, if you were willing to overlook the nail-shredding terror and sheer bloody waste of it all.

This unwanted publicity was, ironically, not a million miles away from the actual purpose of the raid. Although it had also shut down almost all in-system comm traffic, the major goal was the silencing of an important interstellar routing station. This brought the Djielese civil unrest to the attention of the FSP in two ways: the loss of a routing station was no joke, and as a by product of bad communications in-system, Djielese exports literally halved overnight. A large part of those exports comprised of intilla powder - a very useful antibiotic capable of nuking any nasty little beasties, even those which had mutated and become resistant to penicillin and all it's descendants. Needless to say, when supplies of IP started to become scarce - it was legendarily difficult to cultivate anywhere except the surface of Djiel - the FSP started to worry. To this day, Zyan wondered if his fifteen minutes of glory had really been the boon to the revolution it was generally accepted to be, or whether it had instead heralded it's eventual death. The rebel leaders had assumed that the FSP would automatically support them - they were the ones demanding democracy, after all. Apparently, no-one had reminded them of the old saying about what one makes out of 'u' and 'me' when one assumes.

"-on the verge of a new chapter in our civilisation, we must take this opportunity to expunge the darkness of our past and look forward to the bright light of opportunity which beckons us-" The judge driveled on. Zyan ignored it, holding his head as proudly as he could - not out of vanity, but to make sure he didn't show any signs of weakness. Not so much his last duty to his dead and extinguished revolution or anything so noble - he was simply a contrary git when he felt like it.

Zyan was tall and straight, and twenty six in T-years (on Djiel, he was twenty nine). He was not heavily built, but neither was he thin, and he possessed a wiry, whipcord strength. Like most Djielese, he was as pale as china. Although their genetic heritage was as mixed as any other human colony, they'd been settled long enough, with little enough immigration, to have developed a quite distinctive genotype. His hair was dark brown and straight to the jawline, and his features might have been handsome, except that he gave the impression of being as cold and lifeless - and perhaps just as unforgiving - as an airless moon. His eye colour didn't help this impression, being as grey as a midwinter lake and just as icy.

"-anything to say before sentence is pronounced?" The judge finished.

Zyan looked at the crowd and wondered if there were any sympathisers there. It didn't seem likely.

"Only that I'm glad you've finally shut up," Zyan said succintly. The FSP rep giggled, earning her a sharp glare from several dignitaries and guards. She recovered herself, and smoothed down her neat grey uniform.

The Prots had other ideas, though. The screen flickered for a few seconds, obscuring Zyan's face from most witnesses, and the voice address boomed forth a (frankly poor) imitation of his habitually neutral and low intonation.

"I deeply regret the suffering I have caused in the name of anarchy, and humbly beg that the court dispose of me justly but mercifully," Zyan didn't say. He shrugged his indifference. In any case, the fakery was painfully, even pathetically, obvious.

"The court hears your words," The judge continued. "While justice might compel us to deliver the maximum penalty permitted by law - that of death by hanging - this court understands the meaning of mercy. We are not an implacable people, nor are we blinded by vengeance. Therefore, Zyan Ezekiel Jarvis, you are hereby sentenced to exile in perpetuity from the Djiel Protectorates and any embassies, territories or vessels thereof. You are directed to depart immediately by FSP transport."

The sentence was as much of a sham as the court. The Djielese charter was very soon to be brought into line with FSP norms - which didn't include death penalties or even exile. An FSP lawyer had explained that life imprisonment on an off-world rehabilitation centre was the worst that intergalactic justice had to offer. Zyan, though, knew that the Protectorate government seldom let such trivialities as the law stand in it's way.

 _Very nice_ , he thought. _The state looks all fluffy and forgiving. I wonder when whatever little 'accident' they have planned is going to happen to me?_

The crowd, for their part, were expressing their opinion of this judgement, and they apparently didn't think too highly of it. The fence bellied and strained like the sails of an ancient ship, their bloodthirsty baying rose to a fever pitch, and the security on the stand began to look rather nervous.

"Your honour?" The FSP rep turned to the dignitary beside her - a standard issue Prot authoritative type, clad in red - and indicated Zyan. She drew a pair of restraints from a pouch at her belt. "If I might take the prisoner into custody?" Her voice was light and melodic, with a decidedly non-Djielese accent.

"A moment, please, Captain Mubata. There are certain formalities to be observed. The prisoner must be led off the podium and marched through processing," The red-clad official told her. "If you'd care to wait in your ship, we will have him brought to the airlock."

The FSP rep took a quick look at where the processing area had been set up - less than five metres from the fence. The guards waiting there looked about ready to bolt. It was plain from her expression that she knew this was not the result of bad planning or coincidence.

"If it's all the same to you, Delegate Gerbings, I'd just as soon accompany him at all times, from now on. He _is_ a dangerous man, after all," the rep countered, clearly not buying the man's story. She looked over at Zyan when she said this - largely, he thought, eyeing up his butt.

"Captain, this is a strictly internal matter-" the Delegate argued.

"-Which I am present to witness, as per the agreement with the Federated Sentient Planets," the rep finished for him. "I urge you to remember that these are _not_ legitimate legal proceedings, and the continuance of your revised charter as an autonomous power rests upon such details as this. I should be most put out if my report had to include too many words like 'refused', 'denied' and 'evaded'."

That was direct enough to cause the Delegate to glare at her with the dirtiest look Zyan had ever seen violate the face of a Prot politician, and his back catalogue of those was nothing to be sniffed at.

"You haven't the faintest idea what is occurring here, have you?" Gerbings asked her patronisingly.

"On the contrary, I have a _very_ good idea what is happening," the rep said. Before Gerbings or any of his cronies could act, she'd strode over to Zyan, whipped one end of her restraints around his right wrist, and the other around her left. He regarded them disinterestedly, and noted that the rep wore some kind of subtle perfume. "I'm going with him. _Capische?"_

The guards looked unsure of themselves. Gerbings was pale with fury. The judge - probably, Zyan realised, someone chosen for his oratory skills rather than his legal mind - looked confused.

She didn't seem too bad, Zyan thought. "I wouldn't," he advised her. "This could get you killed."

She ignored him, and stared levelly at Gerbings.

The crowd practically keened. It was a sight and sound that would never, ever leave him. The seething mass seemed to be one single entity, flowing and ebbing. The Prots, he thought, had worked their manipulation rather too well. People were probably dying down there in the crush.

"My good woman, unless you cease and desist from this unreasonable behaviour at once, I shall be forced to pursue this matter at the highest levels. The very highest, do you understand?" Gerbings snarled, steaming over to get right in her face.

"You talk too much," Zyan told him.

"Silence, traitor," Gerbings snapped. On cue, the nearest guard drove his fist into Zyan's stomach.

Zyan didn't flinch, ruthlessly suppressed the pain, and turned his icy stare on the guard. The man was almost twice his weight, and Zyan was chained to both an inflexible metal railing and an equally stubborn woman. Nevertheless, the man backed away, looking at his slowly unclenching fingers as if they might bite him. Black Zyan had quite a reputation today. One good thing to be said for being the target of a planetary smear campaign making you out to be a dangerous mass murderer - people tended not to mess you about.

"That's enough!" The woman said forcefully. "Delegate Gerbings, you're going to lose this one. Understand that now. The crowd's starting to wonder if you're in control here. Comply with the FSP directive while you can still use it as an excuse. You," she said, prodding Zyan below the ribs, "if I was you, I'd be quiet."

He jerked his head in the direction of the thundering crowd. "If I was _you_ , I'd be gone already."

The rep shot him a withering look, and he shrugged infinitesimally. The certainty of death, he thought, was a great calming influence. It was the possibility that terrified people. He vaguely remembered reading that, at some point during his abortive academic career, but couldn't pin the author.

Gerbings hesitated for another moment, unwilling to let Zyan slip through his fingers, but knowing, deep down, that the FSP had spoken up on this one. If their agent came back in a box, then there would be trouble with a capital 'Regime Change'.

"Get out of here," he hissed. "Guard - unlock those cuffs."

"Only she's got keys, Delegate," the security man replied.

" _Our_ cuffs, you imbecile!" Gerbings told him scathingly.

The man complied.

"Well, I'll leave him to your tender mercies, then, Captain Mubata," Gerbings bowed sarcastically, then turned and stalked confidently away, calling over his shoulder: "I do so hope you enjoy each other's company."

"And idiot of the year award goes to-" Mubata muttered under her breath, then jerked Zyan roughly after her as she made for her ship, the guards and other officials melting out of the way. "Come on - let's blow this cheerless mudball before your little prediction comes true. Give me any trouble, by the way, and a lynching from an angry mob will seem like a golden age in comparison. _Comprende?"_

Zyan didn't reply, but allowed himself to be led along. Gerbings would have a backup plan. Guy on a roof with a rifle, explain it away as some madman in the crowd...

The ship was fifty yards away when there was a terrific roar and a crash from behind. The fence had given way.

"Marcus!" Mubata yelled, seemingly at no-one. She broke into a flat out run. Zyan, given no other choice, followed suit. "Tell me good news, buddy!"

Someone on the ship, maybe. The reply was by an ear-bead he had not noticed before, and inaudible to him. Mubata nodded at the reply.

"Good. Let 'em mill around by your thrusters and then blow some harmless gas, give 'em a ten second countdown. Yeah, I know it's not necessary, but they'll clear right off, trust me. Nothing like a countdown to make people nervous," Mubata went on. "Seal and lock down all your handholds and access panels, too. Why? Rule of humanity, Marcus - there's always some enthusiast with more balls than brain cells."

Mubata chose this moment to glance up at Zyan's stone-chiselled face, which he didn't take too kindly to. Like before, though, he chose to say nothing. He had very little left to say.

"Not worried, at all?" Mubata asked lightly, indicating over her shoulder to where a positive horde was tearing over the podium. Bottles and rocks were being thrown, but falling short - a molotov cocktail shattered with a _whoomph_ , spraying fire everywhere. For the moment they were safe, but soon that would change. The lead elements of the crowd were fearfully fast on their feet. They say that fear gives men wings, but anger certainly put a spring in some people's step, too.

"No," Zyan replied simply. Any moment now, the assassin's bullet. He wondered if he should warn her, but remembered that he'd already advised her against this: duty done, then.

The ship now towered above them, a gunmetal monument to Escape. Prot guards milled around in confusion, waving away the last billowing traces of some kind of gas. Mubata shoved him forward onto a platform that zipped down the length of the vessel to meet them, and just as quickly bore them up again.

"Stop us at the midbay lock, Marcus," Mubata said into what Zyan now saw to be a concealed throat mike, then: "Yeah, well, they've got firebombs and God knows what else. I wouldn't bet against someone in that crowd packing something that could hurt you. Djielese security obviously messed up. We'll use the emergency acceleration couches, and the hell with procedure. All we've gotta do is get orbital, not jump out of here."

The rep's words were given added emphasis by a burst of automatic weapons fire from the crowd. It went high, spanging off the hull of the ship.

"Whoa!" Mubata yelped.

Zyan used the cuffs to yank her down into a crouch, and put his back between her and the crowd, for what good it would do. Neither of them wore armour, unless her uniform incorporated some. She protested with a growl, and Zyan felt her tense to push him off.

She didn't have time, though. The lift ride was cut short, terminating in an airlock panel which slid smoothly open to admit them. Inside was a large chamber, used for debarking large items in space. It came equipped with a line of crash/launch chairs on a rotating carriage.

"In!" The rep snapped, although Zyan had already given her a push and followed her in. The hull clanged with more impacts from enthusiasts in the crowd.

"Seats on the rear wall," Mubata said. "Get in the second one, there."

Zyan obeyed. It occurred to him that he wasn't dead yet, and for some reason found the thought less than comforting, because he couldn't see the Prots letting him go very easily. He'd faced the dangers of spacebourne conflict on and off for the past four years, and didn't relish the prospect of that lock door being breached the hard way. They said you had thirty seconds of utter agony in vacuum, before you finally went. He'd heard a man, over the comm, blow his own brains out rather than deal with that.

The woman hit a large red panic button on the armrest of her chair, and emergency restraints fired and deployed, strapping them both over-firmly into their seats. They rotated ninety degrees into launch position with a bone-jarring jerk.

"We're in," Mubata said.

"I'm more than adequately aware of that fact already, Chaka," someone replied over shipwide intercom, the voice male, refined and just a little touch on the haughty side.

"So take off already," Mubata replied, her irritation plain.

"Didn't I mention I already had? Fifteen metres above ground level and rising, my dear - I do _have_ inertials in the midbay lock, but you seemed to be enjoying the drama of the moment so much. No damage from the small-arms fire, and I can see you're both uninjured. Welcome aboard, Major Jarvis, by the way. It's always nice to have a notorious terrorist in one's cargo lock," The voice drawled urbanely. "I don't believe we've had one of you fellows aboard for nearly three whole days, now. Still, worth the wait for Black Zyan himself, eh?"

"Marcus, you think maybe you could keep quiet? Just one time tonight?" Mubata asked in a strained way.

"Certainly, oh Captain my Captain." There was a brief pause. "There. Did you enjoy it?"

"One of these days, Marcus, I'm gonna rip out your vocal diaphragm and stuff it up your-" Mubata promised levelly.

 _"Incoming orbital missiles!"_ Marcus suddenly said, all business now.

 _Here we go_ , Zyan thought.

The bay jigged and whirled as the ship started jinking to avoid the missiles. Inertial compensators could only do so much.

"Spread of ten HE tipped warheads just launched from one of their high orbit platforms. I'm receiving a message claiming it's a malfunction in the automatic targeting systems." The voice sounded slightly rattled. "They're trying to send the destruct codes."

"Yeah, sure they are," Zyan commented.

"I'm going to break orbit. Hopefully they'll run out of fuel," Marcus decided.

 _Don't hold your breath_ , Zyan thought. A few moments passed.

"Can you evade them?" Mubata asked.

"Not for much more than a minute," Marcus informed them tightly. "For missiles with malfunctioning guidance systems, they're really rather persistent."

"Damn," Mubata swore. "Countermeasures?"

"Ineffective," Marcus reported. His voice sounded strained. "Get yourself to one of the lifepods, Chaka. I can make sure that you're both safe."

Zyan looked blankly at the far wall, and then came to a decision.

"Your man there said a high orbit platform?" He asked Mubata, quietly.

"Yeah," she replied.

"Lucky for us. Want to know how to lose those birds?" He enquired.

She turned and looked him in the eye. "Any ideas would be greatly appreciated."

"Those warheads are old - they're converted from space-clearance models," he explained in a neutral, disinterested tone. "They're hard to fool, but can't deal with multiple targets. Don't try and head out, head back _in_ , ASAP. Find yourself some unmanned junk and fly past it - I guarantee none of those missiles will re-acquire."

"First time tonight I heard him string more than maybe ten words together," Mubata commented dryly, then: "Will it work?"

"I'm already trying it." The voice told them.

Mubata turned to look at Zyan again. "I hope you're right."

Zyan allowed himself a very faint twitch of the lips. It wasn't the first time he'd heard that phrase in a stressful situation.

They felt another high-g turn which the gravitics of Mubata's ship only partially compensated for, then a series of minor course corrections.

"One down," Marcus said. "Three. Five. Eight, nine. Great - the last one just wiped out all satellite holo channels for the northern continent."

"No-one takes down a B&B ship that easily," Mubata averred. "Marcus, transmit the appropriate protests and complaints to the Djielese government, and then, let's get the hell out of here."

"Done and done. Jolly good save, there, Major Jarvis." The restraints released and wound back into their housings.

"Call me Zyan." He shrugged. He'd never wanted that promotion.

"Good call, Zyan," Mubata grinned widely at him. "Name's Chaka."

She extended her free hand, and Zyan shook it briefly. Her grip was strong and warm.

"Means we're even," Zyan hinted, and raised his cuffed wrist as a hint.

"Sorry, Zyan. I'm not taking those off right now," Chaka replied solemnly.

"I'm a prisoner, then?" He asked her.

"Oh, no. Officially you have refugee status." Chaka gracefully swung out of her seat and straddled his. "I just want you where I can get my hands on you when I feel like it."

"All refugees get this treatment?" Zyan asked, returning the look she gave him. "Or do you sometimes use the direct approach insteaad?"

"'Course not. However, shuttling your cute behind off that planet was the last part of a job which just bought us out of hock to the FSP, and saved you from bein' trampled, kicked, molotov cocktailed and generally lynched to death. Under the circumstances I feel a little celebration is in order." Chaka smiled and stretched langourously on his lap - as far as the handcuffs would allow, at any rate. "Don't you concur?"

"She's lying, of course," Marcus said. "My partner here is more than willing to celebrate the opening of an envelope, the activation of a wallscreen, or the turning-on of a tap."

"Hey, Marcus - a little privacy?" Chaka asked. "So what you wanna do, Zy?"

Zyan looked at her. She smiled.

"Tell me no if you want, Major Jarvis," Chaka told him, and smiled, a little ruefully. "Say the word, and I'll unlock the cuffs, show you to your room, and leave you the hell alone. I just favour the direct approach, as you say. Your record seems to suggest you do, too."

Zyan briefly considered calling her on that, just to see how she'd act, but then decided that since his life had recently taken an upswing - in that it hadn't ended violently - he'd see how this one played out.

"Nah," he said. "Leave 'em on."

Mubata grinned wickedly. "Knew it."

"Shower out of the question?" He ventured. The prisoner's overalls he was wearing now were the same ones he'd been issued two weeks ago.

"In your case, it's mandatory," she answered, wrinkling her nose and getting nimbly to her feet. "Follow me."

"Like I have a choice," Zyan snorted, but once more allowed a very small suggestion of a smile to flicker across his face - quicker than a swallow's shadow.

"Life is full of choices, Zyan," Chaka informed him as she passed through the door. "It's just the difficult ones you gotta watch for."

Zyan elected not to press her on what she meant. Now that he was seemingly out of trouble, he was beginning to realise his situation had improved somewhat. A lot - at least in the past two minutes.

Plus, he was mainly looking forward to a _very_ nice shower.


	2. Chapter 2

Zyan's relationship with Chaka Mubata lasted three days. Out of those seventy two hours, he reckoned he spent maybe two of them alone. It was going to be a short relationship and she knew it, so she compensated by making it an intense one, physically, at least. Chaka was a pretty singleminded woman. She knew what she wanted, and she wasn't the least bit shy in getting it, whether it was career related or otherwise.

It was maybe a little bit disrespectful to her, then, that when later in life Zyan thought back to that three day journey from Djiel to the FSP installation, what he would (at first) remember was a conversation with Marcus, and not his various interludes with the brawn of the ship.

He'd heard about B&B ships, of course, in the same kind of way he'd heard about the various alien races, multi-party democracy, and other such distant fantasies. They existed somewhere, but as a Djielese it was unrealistic to expect to ever see them in your lifetime. Therefore, they took on a kind of hazy, nebulous existence.

Zyan quickly found that it was easier to simply think of Marcus as being the ship, rather than a life-supported human being in an armoured chamber. To go that way with it, well, he just found it a little bit hard to get his head round. It also injected a little disharmonious note into his currently very frenzied love-life: Zyan had never felt the need for an audience, which was maybe one reason he'd been constantly on the verge of being kicked off his course. Call it narrow-minded, but his teachers had pretty much assumed that anyone studying the performing arts was pretty much going to want to be seen performing some arts at some point, whereas Zyan would've been more than happy to spend the entire time in his room. He liked to make music for the hell of it, not to impress any third parties, and applied the same rule to other leisure pastimes. Marcus had monitors everywhere and was theoretically free to pry, despite his assurances to the contrary. Chaka, however, was very good at distracting Zyan from this fact. He supposed she'd have to be, if she planned on doing any serious entertaining on a regular basis. From the dry comments Marcus aimed at her now and again, and her tart rejoinders, Zyan could tell that this was an issue for good natured bickering between the two.

The conversation occurred on the third day. In the morning, they'd be making their last jump for Barnard's Star, and the journey would be over. Chaka was involved in a long comm call with an FSP frigate on it's way to Djiel, which effectively left Zyan at a loose end. This was just as well: he'd dived straight from the frying pan into bed, and had so far been granted precious little time to reflect and think. This was great from one point of view, but not very helpful when it came to orienting oneself to a new reality. So, he wandered the ship, thinking, and eventually found himself settling into a chair on the bridge, in front of the curved, heavily armoured panel that protected Marcus' body. The viewscreen showed stars moving past - a fake image, intended only to give the impression of interstellar movement, and conveniently save the screen from degrading at the same time. Zyan knew that they were actually almost stationary, while Chaka briefed the frigate's senior officers.

He'd taken to wearing a collarless black suit of sturdy, hard wearing material, which fitted snugly around his neck. Seated, and looking pensively at the viewer, he must have resembled a priest contemplating the cosmos.

"I know what you're thinking," Marcus told him solemnly.

"Telepathy a recognised adaption of shell people, then?" Zyan asked him, a little testily. It wasn't a nice thing to admit to oneself, but up until that point Zyan had thought Marcus was going a bit far with his pointed comments. So maybe Chaka was used to it, even expected it. Zyan wasn't and didn't appreciate being referred to as 'terrorist', 'guerilla', 'agitator' or any of the other words Marcus had been using to describe him. He still thought of himself as a student caught up in important events and just trying to keep his head above water, despite everything that had happened to him.

"Not even remotely – empaths are real, telepaths are most decidedly _not,_ but I am neither _._ It's hardly necessary in your case, though, _herr Major,_ " Marcus' urbane voice informed him. "You're wondering where it all went wrong, correct?"

Marcus was indeed in the right ballpark. A year ago, the government forces had seemingly been on the run. The countryside - where the intilla powder was made - had fallen largely into rebel hands. Democratic elections had been held in fourteen out of seventeen districts. Only the urban centres like Djielonia remained fully in the control of the state. The Revolutionary Council was planning to wait out the winter, and then finish the job.

Six months later and it was a losing battle. Offworld supplies of munitions, medicine, food and other materiél, which the rebels relied upon, had mysteriously dried up. The Prot government, on the other hand, had seemed generously equipped with all the equipment it could ever need - although it's policies in utilising them had become far less draconian, they were promising to respect the results of the elections, and hold their own in the remaining three districts. At that point, most of the support for the revolution had withered away. Six months after that, Zyan had been standing on a podium, manacled to a metal railing in front of about fifteen billion annoyed citizens, all of whom wanted to hit him very hard with sticks. It was a bit of a turnaround, to say the least.

"Something like that," Zyan allowed. "Your partner's company not withstanding, this isn't the outcome I'd prefer."

"Name me one thing that turns out exactly as planned and I'll show you a miracle," Marcus replied.

"Point," Zyan shrugged.

"I wonder, Major Jarvis, did you ever ponder the point of exactly _why_ you ended up like this?" The voice asked him.

Zyan eyed the smooth grey metal. "Probably I didn't listen to my mothers well enough."

"Mothers?" Marcus asked, sounding a little surprised.

"Long story," Zyan said. "Let's just say I'm the product of an unconventional relationship."

"Ahhh, right, okay then," Marcus said, and let it drop. "What I was actually referring to were the political changes instituted by the FSP. The Protectorate hegemony caved in awfully easily to the FSP's demands. Did you ever stop to ponder exactly _why_ this was?"

"Not particularly," Zyan replied. "I assume they just strong-armed 'em. Sort it out or we send in the marines."

"That's not a tactic to which the Federated Sentient Planets usually likes to resort, Major, at least not if the planetary eco-system isn't in danger, and most definitely not in the case of a system like Djiel, with considerable military might on both sides. It's not a trivial undertaking, assembling enough military strength to even _register a difference_ in a situation like that, much less control the outcome. The FSP much prefers backroom dealings. It's less of a drain on the federal budget, you understand," Marcus explained, in tones that were definitely going somewhere.

"You're sayin' the feds chucked in with the prot government. If that's so, then why bother with this big humanitarian drive after the fact? They've lifted nearly eleven thousand people off Djiel alone - maybe another two thousand from the outlying settlements and Djiel IV. Doesn't make sense," Zyan replied, now thoroughly hooked on the conversation. He leant forward in the chair, looking intently at the casing.

"What makes sense," Marcus said, "depends entirely upon one's objectives. So, I put it to you, what do you believe the FSP's motives in this intervention to be?"

"What did the FSP want outta the deal? Political stability in the Djiel system - but we coulda given them that," Zyan replied.

"Zyan, Zyan... I expected better of you than that. You're not being nearly cynical enough, dear boy. Remember what the game was," Marcus nudged him verbally.

"Politics," Zyan responded unhesitatingly.

"And how is it played?"

"Dirty." He smiled thinly.

"Very good! There's hope for you yet. Now - bearing that in mind - what were the FSP's objectives here?"

"Ip powder, right? Pure and simple," Zyan stated.

"Excellent, Mr. Jarvis. Without intilla powder, people all over the galaxy start dying from those horrible little ailments which everyone thought were a thing of the past. Makes the voters - not to mention medical-industrial pressure groups - very unhappy. The Federated Sentient Council reacts very badly to such things. They'll do almost anything to make sure that a hiccup like you created doesn't turn into something more serious," Marcus pointed out.

"They can't be _that_ bad," Zyan protested.

"In truth, no, probably not. There are constitutional and humanitarian issues to be considered, so add one more objective: a return to the spirit of the original Djielese charter, that of a world which is free, if you sort of squint and look sideways at it, anyway."

"Okay so," Zyan thought, "the FSP wants the supply of IP - plus maybe their interstellar comms - back to normal ASAP. On top of that, they want a political result. They could've still just dealt with us, though."

"Getting colder, Mr. Jarvis. The FSP is an adjudicator, a mediator, an over-arching power. They can't be seen to be supporting either side in a civil war. Certainly they can intervene, but not as anyone's _ally_. They have to dictate terms, and without a fleet presence, that requires a docile - or desperate - party to deal with," Marcus laid it down.

Zyan cottoned on - perhaps a little slowly, but he'd always thought of the FSP as a set of beliefs and ideals, not a pragmatic, practical organisation. To a citizen of pre-revolutionary Djiel, the FSP, or at least what was known of it, had seemed very far away, and not real at all.

"The prots were desperate. Desperate enough to change their ways and give the FSP the guarantees it wanted. In return...in return they shut down our supplies from out-system, right?"

"No-one will ever know that, you understand, but that's the most likely explanation."

"They hung us out to dry," Zyan breathed, in pale-faced disbelief.

"Quite," Marcus generated a sniffing sound. "Don't take it personally, though. When the stakes are this high, someone has to lose rather a lot. This time it was you - and about thirteen thousand others. Next time, perhaps you'll be the winner. Djiel _has_ changed, too. No more purges, no more show trials, no more thought police. The FSP won on all counts."

Zyan thought about it for a moment. It fitted together rather well. The FSP had allowed the prots to get punched up right against the ropes, and had then offered them an easy out - with conditions. The eventual price of all this was the deportation of thirteen thousand individuals - the revolution's leaders and their families. No small wonder, then, that the FSP had expended so much effort to make sure everyone escaped without being harrassed too much. He wondered: could institutions feel guilt?

"Why are you tellin' me all of this? You're FSP too."

"Not any more - as my good if over-amorous partner says, we're now firmly out of hock." Marcus sounded pleased as Zyan still reeled, and then his voice became more sympathetic. "I'm telling you, though, because I imagine you're going to spend a long time within the federal system, and you shouldn't enter into such an ordeal with your eyes shut."

"I'll appeal against this, somehow," Zyan promised, jumping out of the chair and stalking around in a rare show of emotion. "I'll go to the press. Damn it, I'll force my way into a Session of the FSP if I bloody well have to!"

"Well, by all means _try_ , and good luck, Mr. Jarvis. I don't think, though, that you'll meet with a great deal of success. The Djielese charter has been re-ratified to the satisfaction of the Council, the magic powder is once again flowing freely, and old wars make for disappointing headlines. I'm afraid the Djielese revolution is yesterday's news."

"And so is Black Zyan," Zyan gloomed, sitting down again, although he privately thought: _though that's not exactly a bad thing._ He'd quite like to be just Zyan again.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I'll bet the Heptite Guild, for one, won't forget your name in a hurry."

"The who?" Zyan asked.

"The Heptite Guild. On Ballybran. The Crystal Singers. Surely you're not going to tell me you've never heard of them?"

"Not really. They a theatre group or somethin'?"

Marcus laughed - the sound reverberated around the bridge in humourous stereo.

"No, they're not that, although on occasion they're partial to dramatics. I've had the odd one aboard now and again - before Chaka's time - and they're, well, they're certainly _different_ , are Crystal Singers. So they can advertise now and they call themselves CS whoever, but some things never change," Marcus mused.

"Okay, all this is going right over my head. Give me a definition, willya?" Zyan asked.

"To recite a very stuffy definition that doesn't even _begin_ to describe these people, the Heptite Guild is concerned with the mining, research, development and distribution of the crystals that are at the heart of many high-technology industries and products. Without this resource, communications and powerplants-"

"I know what crystals _do_ , Marcus," Zyan interjected, a little snappishly, because all this talk of things he knew little about was making him feel like a poor cousin and he hated it. "It just never happened to be of a great deal of importance to me where they come from."

"Suit yourself," Marcus replied indifferently. "However, now that Djiel is accessible again, all those crystals you shattered need replacing - and any that were matched to them. Someone's going to become very rich, and it's all down to you."

"They cost a bit, then?" Zyan asked.

"Through the roof," Marcus acknowledged. "I've got a set of five blues in my sublight drives - set me back eighty thousand crs. Even the pinks in the mainframe cost almost ten thousand, and that's considered cheap."

"That's a lot of money," Zyan agreed. "They hirin', at all?"

"I expect so - rumour has it they're sort of on the recovery after a bit of a slump. Certainly the FSP's letting them advertise for recruits, now. They never did that before."

"So they'd pay pretty well for a pilot, maybe?" Zyan asked.

"I expect so, but it's the singers who make the real dough, or so I'm led to believe. To be a singer, you have to be musical," Marcus answered.

"You don't say," Zyan responded, in a dry voice of his own, adding privately, _not that I ever was_. Being able to sing and hold a note was one thing, he could do that. Doing it in the right order, at the right tempo, without pissing off the other cast members and remembering to face the right direction - not so much.

"Not in _that_ way," Marcus replied tiredly. "I gather that tempting the crystal out of the ground requires a set of lungs and vocal chords, plus the right genes to use them like a scalpel."

"Well, anyways," Zyan said - his usual set of words for changing a subject. Okay, so maybe he'd check out this Heptite Guild later on, (eighty large would buy a lot, like maybe passage back to Djiel to start some trouble and a whole load of kit to start it with), but right now, he had other concerns. "What should I be lookin' for when we get to this Bernard's Star?"

"Barnard's Star," Marcus corrected him. "You really are a backwoodsy type of person, aren't you?"

"On Djiel, they used to shoot people for trying to leave the backwoods. Sometimes literally," Zyan replied flatly. "You follow?"

"I apologise. Barnard's Star, among other things, has a station which is serving as a refugee camp for all your compadres and their dependents. You have family waiting there?"

Zyan shook his head. "No. Mother and mother aren't overly concerned with politics - in fact they're not too bothered by anything beyond their front gate, to be quite honest. As for my sister, who knows."

"Not a close family then?" Marcus guessed.

Zyan nodded. "Spot on. Couldn't wait to disappear off to college. A letter used to happen maybe every four months."

"What about, erm, if you don't mind me asking, your father? Or fathers?" Marcus asked.

Zyan laughed - something he hadn't done very much, until a day or so ago. "See what I mean? Unconventional. In answer to your question, my 'father' was a custom-tailored DNA sample. My mothers wanted creative, intelligent offspring who'd do something unique and interesting with their lives. Imagine their disappointment when what they actually got was a normal pair of kids who just tore around the house making a mess and breaking things. They were hopelessly ill-suited to be our parents and we were hopelessly ill-suited to be their children." Zyan shrugged. "The whole arrangement kinda imploded maybe two years before the war started."

There was very little in the way of bitterness there - after all he had far more hurtful experiences to hoard and deliberate over if he'd been the type - but all the same, Zyan preferred to pretend he'd hatched out of an egg at age 18.

"I... I'm afraid I'm not altogether certain what to say in response to that, Zyan," Marcus confessed.

"Probably best to get back on track. Barnard's Star?" Zyan prompted him.

"Ah, yes. Well, there's a refugee processing station running at full capacity, but I expect, what with you being who you are, you'll rate a slightly different reception. Maybe even an FSP agent all to yourself for a few hours," Marcus informed him.

"If that's what you're after," Chaka injected herself into the conversation, "you can have that right now."

Zyan turned around with a slight smile for her. Marcus made a sigh.

"Well, I see that any chance of further productive chat has now gone out the airlock," The brain lamented.

"Can it, Marcus. I've just spent an hour and a half briefing a group of tight-lipped military types about the situation on Djiel, and quite frankly I'm about to explode," the brawn told him smartly. "I'm also very hungry. Care to join me for dinner, Zy darling?"

"Be warned you're probably on the menu," Marcus muttered.

"Marcus..." Chaka warned.

"Very well, I'll be off then. Remember what I told you, Mr. Jarvis. Wheels within wheels, and all that."

"Yeah, I won't forget," Zyan replied. It wasn't a lie.

"He been doing his lecturer bit again?" Chaka asked him, before drawing him into a passionate kiss.

"Hmm, yeah," he replied, when they broke, and made their way toward the galley.

"You listen to any of it?" She enquired further.

"Actually, yes," Zyan told her.

"Good," she said, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "If you're smart, you'll remember it. All of it."

Which was exactly what he did do.


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus put the image of Barnard's Star clearing station on the viewer. The B&B ship was on it's final approach.

The installation was old, according to the information Zyan had skipped disinterestedly through - basically it was a hangover from the days when FTL travel required a lot of stop-off points. They'd cannibalised a local asteroid to make the slowly-spinning habitat cylinder, and the docking rings at each end looked as if they'd been added on largely as an afterthought. The planet it orbited was small, lifeless, and an ugly mottled grey. Barney's Rock, as Chaka told him most spacers dubbed it, wasn't a particularly aesthetically pleasing piece of technology.

What it was good for, though, was handling several thousand people on short notice. Free space was something Barney's Rock most definitely possessed. In spades.

Spacecraft of every description were currently coming, going, docking, departing and waiting in holding patterns around the veteran station. Most were FSP transports, or civilian contractors drafted in to ferry the Djielese refugees, but amongst them Zyan recognised the odd construct that had obviously originated within his system. There were perhaps a dozen cargo haulers retrofitted with jump drives, a pair of battered _Xavier_ class gunships each towing a life support module, and even a Djielese light frigate which must have been liberated from the somewhat pathetic Protectorate Navy. Dwarfing everything save the station itself, though, were a pair of FSP cruisers and a behemoth fleet carrier - undeniable evidence of who was in charge here.

"CM1244, this is Barnard Station Port Control. You are assigned priority docking on ring B, lock fifteen. Please stand by for guidance data," the controller told them briskly, then added: "The usual waiting time for ships without any onboard emergencies is four _days_ , right now. Somebody sure wants you docked quickly, CM1244."

"Acknowledged, Port Control," Marcus responded.

"I wonder why that might be," Chaka commented in an aside to Zyan.

"Beats the hell outta me," he replied, straight faced.

"Well," she segued, "whatever happens to you in there, this is basically goodbye. When that airlock opens, I've gotta be an FSP agent again. Sorry, but that's the way it's gonna be."

"I understand," Zyan replied. "It's been...emotional."

"My ass," she said succintly. "You've smiled maybe three times since I met you."

"Yeah, but they were quality smiles," Zyan defended himself.

"Three minutes out," Marcus informed them discreetly. "Station informs me you'll be met at the lock."

"Got everythin'?" Chaka asked him.

Zyan glanced down at the one small bag which contained a few necessities and a replica set of the black clothes he was wearing, all furnished by herself and Marcus. Save that, he didn't have a thing in the world.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Well, come on, then," she walked off toward the forward lock, where they would be disembarking. Zyan took a last look at the inscrutable armoured panel.

"Be seein' you, Marcus. Don't bounce yourself off any planets," he gave the panel an understated wave.

"I'll make a special point of it, Zyan old chum. Watch yourself out there," Marcus replied.

Zyan nodded in reply, and wandered off after Chaka. They stood side by side, facing the grey metal. A screen above them and to the left showed the receiving portal growing steadily and smoothly closer. Marcus was an excellent pilot - Zyan had always re-adjusted and re-adjusted on his docking runs.

"It's been lots of fun," Chaka told him. "Maybe we'll run into each other again."

"Maybe," Zyan told her.

"I mean, it's a small galaxy. Every day I hear someone say that," she shrugged.

"Yeah."

"One minute," Marcus noted.

It was a leave taking that was very typical of short-term relationships - the slightly self-conscious hugging and patting and the nervous peck to the cheek being the giveaways. Chaka kept it up for about 0.5 of a second before making a dissatisfied noise, pushing Zyan back against the wall, and issuing another of her high-intensity, lip-bruising kisses. If he was just another notch on her bedpost then, well, she was certainly right that it had been lots of fun.

The thunk-hiss of docking interrupted them. Chaka grinned at him, and then readjusted her uniform. Zyan clocked up smile number four, a very slight curve of the lips, and then composed his face into it's usual frozen mask.

The lock cycled open. Behind were two men in grey civilian ship-suits, but they may aswell have had 'FSP' sprayed across their foreheads in luminous pink lettering. Both men were colourless, standard issue feds, with regulation haircuts and polite expressions - in fact they resembled each other so closely they could've been brothers. Maybe they were, for all Zyan knew. Behind them stood a detachment of marines, six very big, very imposing men and women in light combat gear. Heavyworlders from the fleet vessels, no doubt. The lead pair, one sporting sergeant's stripes, eyed Zyan with cool appraisal, no doubt wondering if a) he was going to create a problem and, b) if it was going to be a violent one.

"Captain Mubata," the lead suit spoke up with a neutral expression and tone. "Vincent Flay, FSP Emergency Management Agency. This is my partner, Stuart Jakovsky. We're with the Crisis Team here on Barnard's. Is this Zyan Jarvis?"

Like they didn't know. Zyan decided to let everyone else do the talking.

"Sure is," Chaka replied. "He's all yours, boys."

"Your thumbprint here, please," Jakovsky handed her a palmtop. Chaka perfunctorily pressed her thumb to the screen and handed it back.

"Careful," she told Jakovsky with a sly sidelong glance at Zyan. "He's a handful."

"Thank you, Captain." He gave her a soulless smile. "Your fee has been deposited in your accounts with the FSP Central Bank. Any supplies used in the course of this mission can be reclaimed from the cruiser _Golden Hind_ on receipt of verified computer records. If there's nothing else?"

"No - everything's been concluded to my satisfaction," Chaka responded, and Zyan knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Thank you. Mr. Jarvis, if you would follow us, you're expected in a meeting." Flay extended one arm precisely fifteen inches from his side. Jakovsky stepped aside. The marines pulled an abrupt ninety degree turn and lined the corridor beyond the lock.

"Oh joy," Zyan commented, and stepped over the boundary. "Thanks for the lift, Miss Mubata. It was an enjoyable ride."

"Oh, definitely," Chaka agreed, and suppressed a laugh. "Goodbye, Major Jarvis."

She gave him a grin and a wave, then headed back into her ship, and out of his life.

"Mr. Jarvis?" Flay hadn't moved his arm.

"Yeah, sure. Let's go."

\- o O o -

Zyan wasn't sure what the deal was here. Flay and Jakovsky, leading the way, hadn't said a damn thing, and the marines who fell into step behind him were at least as impassive and impenetrable as he normally was. The only thing that was clear was that anything along the lines of 'sorry guys, but now just isn't a good time for a meeting, can we reschedule?' would have zero effect on these jokers.

They marched - not completely in step, but the suggestion was definitely there - through the docking complex and toward the spin section of the station. There were still refugees disembarking from transports, haggard, hopeless looking people carrying their lives in overstuffed suitcases and rucksacks, but station personnel held back the lines to allow Zyan and his escorts to pass.

Neither did he go unnoticed. At every turn, a face would look up, and the whisper would pass backward along the dishevelled queue: _It's Black Zyan! Zyan Jarvis is on the station!_

"Hunh. Thought he was dead," one man remarked to another, in his wake.

 _Not quite yet_ , Zyan thought grimly. This little procession was invoking gloomy thoughts, now he'd been deprived of Chaka's charming presence.

Passing from the artificial gravity of the docking ring to the centrifugal gravity of the spin section required a simple - albeit crowded - lift ride. Zyan had been expecting some kind of perspective-defying vista when the doors opened, but what he actually got was another corridor. The station so far seemed to be constructed entirely of metal-floored, four metre square corridors. All were lit by cheap low-power strips which leeched the colour out of everything - Barney's Rock was no more attractive a place viewed from the inside than it was from without.

"Have we got a destination in mind?" Zyan asked. "Or is this just the exercise period or something?"

"It's not far now, Mr. Jarvis." Jakovsky informed him.

Zyan sniffed in reply. The repeated use of his family name was beginning to grate on his nerves, but since he was unwilling to entertain the idea of being on a first name terms with two such anti-personalities, he held back any objections.

The stark uniformity of the journey ended abruptly, however, when they passed through an imposing hatch guarded by more marines - normally proportioned in this case, but professional looking nonetheless. Behind this hatch, crammed into a large, high roofed chamber, was a scene of organisational nightmare. If hell was an overworked bureaucratic organisation, then this would be the lobby.

A throng of people, most dressed at least partly in homogenous, dehumanising FSP relief clothing, were waiting in line, contained by marine guards and chainlink fencing. Their eventual destination was a series of booths, each manned by a pair of uniformed FSP personnel equipped with a terminal and a retinal/thumbprint scanner.

"This is Refugee Processing, Mr. Jarvis," Jakovsky told him, without turning around. "You'll have to be Processed before you can be admitted to the Regulated Areas." Zyan could clearly hear the capital letters.

"Sounds enchanting," Zyan commented flatly.

"Relax, Mr. Jarvis," Flay assurred him, with absolutely no warmth. "If it helps, you're jumping a six-week queue."

"Lucky me," he replied.

"FSP citizenship is not something to be taken lightly, Mr. Jarvis," Jakovsky rebuffed him mildly.

Zyan didn't deign to reply, but he felt a lot like a lamb being led to the slaughter. With six human mountains behind him, though, what was he going to do about it? He followed Flay and Jakovsky up an empty aisle, his escort fading effortlessly into single file behind him.

"Hey!" A man's voice shouted. "It's Black Zyan!"

The kerfuffle started, with heads turning and hails being shouted. Some people called out slogans from the war, others laughed bitterly, and still more just called his name.

" _Please remain calm,_ " loudspeakers thrummed in tones probably calculated to be reassuring. " _Everything is proceeding normally. There is nothing to see here._ " Like anyone was going to believe that.

"LIAR!" A bitter, broken voice hissed at Zyan as he approached. "You promised me the world!"

The speaker was a thin, gaunt man with a scraggly beard. He rattled the fencing as he continued to hurl imprecations - and spittle - at Zyan. The marines fixed him with a steely gaze, and one of the line-guards started over, but Flay and Jakovsky simply ignored him.

"My wife and child are left behind!" The man growled. "Because you said, you told me, we could win!"

"Hey, quit jostling!" His neighbour in the line prodded him. "Things're tough all over, pal."

"I lost everything!" The man - evidently not in total control of his emotions - snapped, then once again smashed both hands against the chainlink. "You lied to me, Black Zyan! Hah! Your heart is black!"

"I never seen you before, my whole life," Zyan replied coldly, in no mood for this. He'd never spoken to this guy, and neither had he ever done any recruiting. "Sorry for your loss, but I was just a pilot."

"Just a pilot? I'll show you!" The deranged man exploded, with another shower of phlegm. As Zyan passed, the man reached under his shabby jacket and produced a thin metal spike, one end of which had been wrapped in insulating tape to create a crude knife. Zyan was to notice that later, of course - right then he just saw the furtive movement and the flash as the man drove his arm through the fence. Shrinking back from knives seldom helps, so he lunged for the guy's arm with the intention of breaking it.

At least, that was what he'd anticipated doing. What actually happened was that the marine sergeant - who'd been paying more attention - lifted him bodily out of harm's way with one effortless movement and a strong grip on each upper arm, simultaneously rotating his body so the assailant's limited stab was directed into the heavyworlder's armour. Light as it was, it was up to the job of withstanding the thrust.

"Corporal Mekla," the sergeant rumbled. "Deal with him."

"No!" The man screamed as his quarry eluded him. The marine second in rank lowered her stunner.

"Freeze," she uttered. Her voice was resonant and powerful. One other property it possessed was the crack of authority.

The thin man was way beyond that, though. While everyone else within earshot had stopped still and raised their hands, he started climbing the fence.

Corporal Mekla coolly shot him in the chest, the stunner producing a cruel sounding buzz. Her target went limp, and collapsed back into the crowd. A pair of medics came hurrying over from their duty station to crouch either side of him. He was pronounced to be out cold but in good shape - physically, at least.

The sergeant nodded, then turned his unflappable gaze back to Zyan, who was rubbing his left shoulder. "Do you require medical attention?"

Zyan shook his head. Behind the sergeant, more marines cleared the way for a stretcher and another med-tech. The speakers urged order, and, it seemed, most people were now willing to oblige.

"What about you, you stabbed?" Zyan enquired of his benefactor. The man shook his head.

"Shall we continue, Mr. Jarvis? You are expected, as I said," Flay invited, quite unaffected by the entire business.

"Yeah, sure," he nodded, as they continued on toward the waiting booth. "Thanks," he commented over his shoulder to the seargent.

Zyan didn't usually initiate conversations with strangers, but he felt moved to ask the FSP agents: "You know what that was about, at all?"

"Someone tried to stab you with an improvised knife, Mr. Jarvis," Flay informed him neutrally. "Although weapons are forbidden aboard, we can't screen for destructive ingenuity."

"I was thinkin' more along the lines of a motive," Zyan stated levelly, quite aware that Flay had just insulted him quite deliberately. "Last time I checked, it was the _other_ side tryin' to kill me."

"There's a lot of defeated, embittered people here, Mr. Jarvis," Jakovsky said, for the first time giving the mildest hint of an emotional involvement. "Human nature is to seek to apportion blame, and some of it is bound to accrue to you."

"I was a soldier. I followed orders," Zyan spoke up in his defense at what he thought to be an implied criticism.

"Of course, Mr. Jarvis," Jakovsky replied, and again Zyan detected a hidden rebuke. "Responsibility for the outcome of the Djielese troubles rests on other shoulders than your own, I'm sure."

Zyan suddenly wondered if the prot propaganda surrounding him was believed anywhere other than Djielonia. He also started to wonder exactly what they'd put in that damned vid film.

As a reply, he lapsed back into his customary demeanour of blank silence. He knew why these people were here, being herded toward an uncertain future. Three words: Federated. Sentient. Planets. The feds and their overriding need for a stable supply of IP, and to the void with the consequences of their cynical, pragmatic policies.

They arrived at the desk - manned in this case by a slightly older version of Flay or Jakovsky, and a uniformed woman, slightly on the plump side, who shrank back as Zyan stood before the desk.

"Name?" The man was unperturbed and businesslike.

Zyan couldn't resist it. "Think so, yes. I seem to remember being given one at birth."

"Name?" The man repeated with no sign of amusement, impatience, annoyance or indeed anything. No dice, then.

"Zyan Ezekiel Jarvis," Zyan Ezekiel Jarvis replied.

"Date of birth?"

"In the Djielese calendar?"

"That will suffice."

"Fifty-eighth of the third phase, 617AL."

"Please check through the records displayed on the screen now. Are these, to the best of your knowledge, correct?"

Zyan scanned through the skimpy details thus presented to him. Place of birth, parents names - both female - seven years of secondary education, and two years of tertiary education in the performing arts, course uncompleted. His occupation since then was listed as 'Aerospace Tech/Insystem Pilot – presumed qualification level 3' - he supposed that putting down 'Freedom Fighter/Terrorist Depending On Who You Talk To', while accurate, would have been a little bit verbose. No mention whatsoever was made of any military service of any kind.

"In the loosest possible sense, yes," Zyan snorted in mild amusement.

"Just yes or no, please."

"Yes."

"Thank you. Please raise your right hand and read from the screen after me: I, Zyan Ezekiel Jarvis, formerly of the Djielese Protectorate, swear to abide by the laws of the Federated Sentient Planets, to submit to valid federal authority when required to do so, and comport myself in a manner befitting an FSP citizen. In return I accept my rights as granted in the FSP constitution, primarily my rights to Privacy, Liberty, Freedom of Expression and Movement, and the pursuit of personal well-being. I swear to uphold this constitution and to labour to live by it's guiding principles. If you wish you may add a request for divine assistance in this last respect."

Zyan hollowly ran through the oath, switching out a simple 'Djiel' for 'Djielese Protectorate'. He also omitted the last, optional section. He had enough problems without bringing God into it.

Neither of these tweaks seemed to perturb the FSP. "Welcome to the Federated Sentient Planets, Citizen Jarvis," the functionary told him emptily. "May you live well and prosperously as a decent, contributing citizen. Please place your thumb in the depression and your right eye up to the scanner."

That done, the plump woman withdrew a slim metallic band from a recess under the desk, and gingerly handed it to him.

"Your wrist unit, Citizen. It identifies you, provides records of your personal affairs and credit, but for reasons of privacy and the right to freedom of movement cannot be used to track or monitor you in any way. FSP guidelines advise that you should wear it at all times - it is extremely hardwearing and quite unobtrusive," the suited man explained.

Zyan looked around and realised that with the exception of the military personnel, everyone sported a similar metallic band. Some were more ornate than his - he guessed he was getting the bog-standard refugee handout model.

"This come with batteries?" He asked, holding the band up to the light and rotating it slowly. It seemed all of a piece. The time - 13:17 - was visible when he looked directly at the face. A profusion of small touch-buttons below the compact display hinted at a complexity to it's function beyond that stated by the official.

"It's internal batteries are good for several decades, and are supplemented by the body's natural electrical emissions," the man's statement was polite but equally condescending. _Quite the poor cousin, then, am I?_ Zyan mused. He also didn't believe for a minute that there wasn't some way to track someone using the thing.

"Citizen," Flay reminded him. "The meeting?"

"Yeah," Zyan fitted the unit to his left wrist, the two metallic straps easing into each other to form a seamless and perfect fit. "Thanks." He made a mental note to obtain one that was less likely to be monitored as soon as he possibly could - or maybe just an honest, no-frills watch like a normal person.

They exited the processing bay by another private, guarded exit, which turned out to be a lift door. The military escort left them behind at this point, although he didn't doubt that Flay and Jakovsky would each have a weapon underneath those identical jackets.

After perhaps a minute and a half of travel, the lift doors opened on a meeting chamber containing a horseshoe-shaped table, and five people.

The meeting. All eyes turned to Zyan.

Among the quintet was one quite attractive woman, another heavyworlder, and indeed one man Zyan recognised: but for a reason he could not quite pin down, his attention was drawn first and foremost to the man sat at the leftmost extremity of the table.

He wasn't possessed of any great physical size, or indeed any attribute which would immediately set him apart from others, but nevertheless that was exactly the quality he did possess, he was quite obviously _not the same_ as the other people in the room. He drew and held attention like a candle draws moths.

He wasn't dressed garishly, although his dark-hued clothes were obviously of a very fine cut. His hair - blond - was brushed back from regular but undistinguished features. His eyes - green - held no particular intensity, save for a cool, penetrative look. Zyan had trouble putting an age to him - perhaps mid thirties?

The man appraised him. Zyan returned that look for a moment or two, and then - not without an effort - he switched his gaze to the man he recognised, simultaneously lowering it's temperature by a good few degrees.

"Jerblek." Zyan pronounced the name as if it was distasteful to him. "So the old saying's right: it's not just cream that floats to the top."

"What did I tell you?" Hanzan Giorgio Jerblek, former cell commander in the revolution, threw his hands up. "Black Zyan is not reasonable. Questioning him is a waste of time!"

Jerblek was a thick-set man in his middle fifties, still sporting his trademark walrus-like moustache, which gave him a fierce, bristling appearance. This, Zyan knew all too well, belied his actual nature, which was that of an overly cautious planner. Jerblek played the averages. When the war had been going well Jerblek advocated swift advances and a no-mercy approach to the enemy. When it turned against them, he'd turned almost as quickly to suggesting urgent talks, negotiation, and appeasement. He'd been one of the first of the rebellion's leaders to skip planet and throw himself at the mercy of the FSP, and it seemed this had paid off in some manner.

Zyan detested him. He'd abused his position then and he was no doubt doing so now. Zyan knew his own figurehead status had been unasked for, and entirely generated by one incident which the media and his own cause had seized upon as somehow totemic of the struggle. Despite this, he had nevertheless been a commissioned officer of a military force, albeit one recognised only by it's own people. Leadership must be by example, or so he believed, and required some kind of guiding principle other than 'do what seems best at the time'.

"Fair enough," Zyan replied. "But then your definition of 'reasonable' reads as 'opportunistic and self-serving', right Jerblek?"

"Enough!" The woman seated in the centre cut in with a sharp ring of command to her voice, and Zyan acceded the point. She was the striking one: perhaps in her forties, she was a handsome woman, with jet black hair and more than a hint of oriental ancestry about her. Her uniform was not FSP or military but something else - Zyan guessed she was a civilian spacer. She was flanked by a grim-faced heavyworlder in military uniform - a full marine colonel, no less - and a serious looking black man in a grey suit which seemed a cut above that of Jakovsky and Flay, but was nevertheless still an indication that he was a fed. Flanking them, in turn, were Jerblek and the mysterious blond man.

"Citizen Jarvis," the woman continued, when Jerblek had quit his blustering and settled into a scowling silence. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. We are very appreciative of your attendance."

Zyan considered the utter ridiculousness of her statement and was about to retort sharply - if speaking was required he'd do it to the max - but then decided against it. She was trying to put him at his ease, something no-one else had seemed bothered enough to do.

"That's nice," he said instead, with no intonation to make it either sarcastic or pleasant. It was far from a gracious reply, but not openly antagonistic.

"I'm Jenafey Yanaka, the Commandant of Barnard's Star Transfer Station. Citizen Jerblek you evidently know - he's the Refugee Liaison," Yanaka started the introductions. Zyan shot Jerblek a dirty look as his job title came up. "Sitting next to him is Assistant Director Symban Nairu, head of the FSPEMA crisis team. To my right is Colonel Gabrek, Commanding Officer of the marines currently stationed here, and the gentleman at the end of the table is CS Vander of the Heptite Guild."

Zyan immediately subjected the man to a more scrutinising look, but he was giving nothing away. Vander inclined his head ever so slightly, and a slight smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, as if the entire round of introductions was some amateurish yet amusing performance staged for his benefit alone.

"To be addressed as Guildmember Vander," Yanaka added after a moment. Zyan wondered if it was significant that although everyone in the room save himself and possibly Jerblek could lay claim to some kind of official title, the station's chief chose to emphasise only Vander's rank.

 _So that's it!_ Zyan thought. _He's one of these Crystal Singers Marcus was so impressed with. What's he doing in here?_

A chair behind a desk - arranged as if one was giving testimony in front of a jury - had been provided. Zyan did not wait to be asked, but eased himself into it, mind working furiously. Flay and Jakovsky remained by the door as unobtrusive guards.

"Okay so," Zyan steepled his fingers and rested his arms on the desk. "I was wondering exactly why I've been - let's say invited - in here?"


	4. Chapter 4

There was a moment of silence while the members of the committee - with the notable exception of the singer, Vander - looked nervously at each other. Vander watched this for a moment, and then, with an expression of impatience, spoke up.

"Oh, for shard's sake!" His voice, despite it's irritated tone, was a smooth baritone. "Is everyone here so caught up with personal reputations that a simple admission turns into some sort of unutterable slur?"

"Guildmember, please," the fed - Nairu - said placatingly. "This is a security matter."

"If I received a credit for every time I've heard _that_ since I arrived on this godforsaken little pebble-" Yanaka glared sharply at the singer's uncharitable description of her station. "-then I'd have no need of the contract money."

"Nevertheless, I might remind you of the need for-" Nairu continued.

"No, I might remind _you_ of something. You've seen my authority, Assistant Director. Do I need to invoke it?" The singer's threat was direct.

Nairu's face was a study in barely repressed fury. Zyan took mental notes for future use: the fed's expression could have boiled water at long range.

The singer seemed utterly unconcerned.

"Gentlemen, Commandant." It was Major Gabrek who spoke. His voice was a low-pitched, thundering growl. "We've already had this one out. Fighting the same battle over and again is not a tactic ascribed to winners. Let's accept the security risk as containable and move on."

"That sounds wise," Yanaka cut in. "Symban, why don't you quickly brief Citizen Zyan?"

"Very well - so long as my objection to this insanity is noted." Nairu glowered at Zyan. _Well the hell with you too_ , Zyan thought.

"I should also like to add my disapproval," Jerblek grated.

"Surprise surprise," Zyan muttered.

"Do get on with it, please," the singer chipped in, sounding bored.

"Citizen Jarvis: how much do you know about the current situation in your home system?" Nairu asked him.

Zyan had been watching the news but hadn't trusted it too much - the reports filed had talked of normalisation and peaceful political reform. Prior to that, he'd been cooped up in solitary confinement for a fortnight, so not even rumours had been available to him.

"You want the quick version?" He asked. Nairu and Yanaka nodded. "Next to nothin'." He told them.

"You see?" Jerblek appealed. "Jarvis won't be of any use."

"Implying you can be?" The singer enquired lightly.

"As I explained, my contacts in the resistance community worked exclusively within different cells-" Jerblek began. The singer snorted.

 _Ah..._ Zyan thought. _Someone's still kicking about back home._

"Whatever." Nairu rudely cut off the man's explanation, to Zyan's distinct satisfaction. "You may or may not be aware, Citizen Jarvis, that although your home planet can no longer be described as being in a state of civil conflict, there is still an element among the local population who were less than satisfied with the results of the FSP's mediation."

"Wonder why that might be," Zyan delivered blankly, suppressing an urge to grin fiercely.

Nairu chose to ignore this comment.

"Now, according to the new terms of the Djielese charter, such issues are considered strictly internal and fall under Protectorate jurisdiction. The FSP cannot directly intervene unless the ecosystem of the planet is threatened, and although they've been largely unable to deal with the remaining unrest, the new Protectorate security forces have not voluntarily accepted our offers of assistance. Our hands, Citizen Jarvis, are effectively tied," Nairu held his wrists together at the end of his sentence.

Zyan mulled that over.

"Well, if I can be blunt, so what?" Zyan shrugged. "I'd suggest you leave well enough alone and mind your own business."

The singer laughed softly. Nairu fixed them both with another of his fiery glares: Zyan countered with his familiar ice.

"I'd like to do just exactly that, Citizen Jarvis," Nairu informed him coldly. "Believe me, I've had it up to here with your system. I'll be glad to get back to somewhere a little more civilised. However, before I can do that, we have a few loose strings to tie up, and for some reason which quite eludes me, this committee believes you may be able to help us."

"Is there a point coming, at all?" Zyan enquired.

"Citizen!" Yanaka reprimanded him. "Please remember the oath you swore not more than ten minutes in the past. The 'valid federal authority' that was mentioned is sitting in front of you now. We're asking you to comply."

"So far you haven't actually asked me a thing," Zyan stated bluntly.

Gabrek interceded at that point. "We want information on any resistance leaders still active at the time of your arrest."

That cut to the chase pretty quickly.

"Forget it," Zyan said flatly, then turned to Jerblek. "They consider you high-up enough to ask first?"

"Of course I was consulted," Jerblek responded. "My knowledge, however, is slightly out of date, so a suggestion was put forward that you might be able to enlighten us further."

"Listen to you: 'enlighten us further'," Zyan laughed bitterly. "See for a moment I thought you were objecting to my presence 'cos you thought I might talk. Now I realise you're just a sell-out piece of filth."

Zyan went on to deliver the worst epithet in the Djielese dialect, and then spat on the floor. He felt a restraining hand on each shoulder - Flay and Jakovsky heading off any trouble. Jerblek flushed bright red, realising that he had indeed just betrayed his position.

"Citizen Jarvis!" Yanaka got to her feet and shook a finger in his direction. "How dare you!"

"Shut it, lady," He replied, his rising ire bringing his accent out. "I got nothin' else to say. Now if you wanna charge me with somethin', do it, but I'm not about to betray people I served with to you or anyone else."

With that, Zyan fell utterly silent. All the members of the committee looked apoplectic, with two exceptions. Gabrek, the militay man, had managed to catch himself before nodding in agreement, and Vander still looked merely amused.

"I'm warning you, Citizen Zyan, don't call our bluff." Yanaka seated herself with dignity. "Failure to co-operate with a direct request from an FSP official is a serious charge, and I am the final judicial as well as operational authority aboard this station. How does ten years on a penal colony sound to you?"

"Chance to work on my tan?" He asked brightly.

Yanaka drew breath to respond furiously, but never got the chance to speak.

She was cut off by the sound of laughter. Vander, the singer, was laughing, unreservedly and with abandon.

 _It wasn't a bad comeback_ , Zyan thought, _but it sure wasn't as funny as all that_. He abruptly wondered if CS Vander was playing with a full deck.

"Amazing," Vander started, wiping a tear from his eye. "One person - just one - comes in here with his own ideas and everything falls to pieces within the space of minutes. I'm impressed: as an example of bureaucratic officiousness I think you four just set new records."

"Guildmember, really!" Yanaka objected.

"Let me put this simply," Vander stated flatly, the humour abruptly falling away like autumn leaves. Then he paused. "No, actually, allow me a moment to discourse upon the situation as I see it."

"This should be good," Nairu commented under his breath.

"You," Vander pointed at Gabrek, ignoring the fed's sarcasm. "You think you're here because you think this is a military operation, but since no soldiers can be landed on the planet, there's really no reason for you to be involved, is there? You," Jerblek now, "you're here because you're trying to make yourself look good. Assistant Director Nairu here think's this is a security matter when really it isn't, and as for you, Commandant, well, your control over the situation is shaky at best, or so I've noted. In short - _you're wasting my fardling time!"_

Everyone - even the hulking Gabrek - recoiled at least a little when Vander snarled this last statement into the air above his head.

"Now listen! " His finger moved from right to left as he spoke. "This isn't a war, it's not happening on board this station, it's not an evacuation or humanitarian aid, and it sure as hell doesn't have anything to do with self-serving opportunists seeking to score a few brownie points with the new management. It's business, pure and simple. Citizen Jarvis - I need to have a few words with you."

Nairu opened his mouth to object.

"In _private_ ," Vander swiftly shut him up. "Do I need to flash the little card again? It seems rather pointless to have to keep trotting the thing out every time I want the slightest little thing done." He turned again to Zyan. "What do you say?"

Zyan considered it - and him. The singer might be a high-handed big shot, but Zyan was willing to bet that he couldn't afford to make himself look foolish right now.

"Fine," he replied. "My consultation fee is five hundred creds for every hour or part thereof. Plus one expensive lunch - and something to drink, preferably very alcoholic and extremely pricy."

He had the satisfaction of seeing the singer's eyes first widen, then flash with anger, and then light up with wry amusement.

"Agreed. Let's go." The singer got to his feet. Zyan rose too, grabbing his bag. Flay and Jakovsky, however, forced him back into his seat. Zyan steeled himself to turn and punch one of them. He wasn't particularly bothered which one.

"Is he, or is he not, a free FSP citizen?" Vander asked, motioning to the scene.

Nairu waved them off. "Let them go," he said wearily. Zyan relaxed.

"Don't think this is the last you've heard of this, Guildmember," Yanaka said, quietly but with evident anger. "I'm going to complain to the FSP, your Guildmaster, the Djielese authorities, and everyone who outranks you short of God. Is that clear?"

Vander motioned Zyan into the lift.

"Feel free to do as you see fit," Vander said, stepping into the lift beside him. "Guildmaster Dahl is behind me, the FSP are behind him, and that's everyone who matters here. Good day to you all."

The lift doors slid shut. Vander expelled his breath in relief.

"Have you ever," he asked Zyan, "seen anything like that?"

"Not that I remember," Zyan replied - carefully and absolutely truthfully.

"Hmm," the man shrugged, then briefly consulted with the voice address controls of the elevator. "Lift! Take us to the best restaurant aboard. I need a drink. Or ten."

\- o O o -

CS Vander, Zyan privately decided, was most definitely the strangest man he'd ever met, and being in the resistance, he'd met his fair share of oddballs. Zyan had fought and schemed alongside any number of paranoid maniacs, sadists, death-wishers and combat junkies, but Vander was odd in an entirely different way. It was only one thing really: he just didn't care.

Other people's rules just didn't matter to him. He was more than happy to make a scene if he saw fit. He bothered the waiter, had the manager brought out, complained on several points, and made sure that what he wanted to happen, happened. What was more, he managed to get away with it. Scot free.

The state of the restaurant was clearly some kind of personal affront to him. Zyan's experience with the catering industry was sketchy to say the least, but he had the general idea that as far as eateries on stations went, this was probably pretty standard. It was clean, sensibly designed, and practical. Vander decreed it lacked a soul or atmosphere of any kind, and if it was the best Barney's Rock had to offer then the place was even more lacking in decent facilities than he'd originally thought.

Zyan, as was his custom, ate efficiently and quickly, and was therefore finished long before the crystal singer, who, despite ordering only a moderate portion of a fish-based dish, just picked at his food sparingly.

"You not eating that?" Zyan asked him, deciding that he could shove that 'Guildmember Vander' tripe where the sun didn't shine from the get-go, and the hell with him if he didn't like it. Vander wasn't the only one who could display a certain disregard for consequences.

"I'm not hungry. Passover happened - luckily for me - while I was on the FSP transport from Ballybran. Now it's the aftermath, and I find food doesn't really appeal in any serious way," Vander shrugged.

"Seems like a waste," Zyan commented, wondering what passover was.

"Hardly. Using this to feed pigs might - just possibly - be considered a waste. Using it to feed dogs would be about it's level." Vander gave his opinion of the dish in a voice which was clearly audible to the waiter, despite the privacy of their booth.

"Suit yourself." Zyan let it slide, and took a sip of beer. It was the one thing on the menu the singer had not seemed actively displeased by.

"You seem remarkably laid back for an infamous terrorist, if I might say so," Vander remarked. "I'd expected some sort of raving fanatic."

"That's out this year," Zyan replied. "Quiet but deadly is in again."

Vander grinned. "You see? Not the Black Zyan the media gives one to expect."

"I'm charging for this, by the way. If you've got something to say, I'd get to it."

"That's slightly more like it," Vander said, pushing his unfinished meal aside. "Rude if not raving, but I'll speak at my leisure nonetheless."

"It's your nickel," Zyan shrugged.

"The FSP's actually. The lack of a relay station is causing them something of a snag, and they're awfully keen to have it back on line." Vander took a long drink from his own glass, seemingly to wash away the taste of the meal. When the waiter collected the plate, he dismissed the man's abortive enquiry with a flicking gesture.

"Ah," Zyan said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Indeed," Vander nodded. "First, however, I really ought to extend my most profound thanks."

"What for?" Zyan asked suspiciously.

"Why, blowing the thing up in the first place, Zyan! One well placed warhead-"

"Rock. Spread of three rocks, actually," Zyan interjected quietly.

"Well, three, then. It's the result that counts: money. Money for me, money for the guild, and money for you." He grinned.

"I'm sure the families of the soldiers inside the stronghold will be touched by your sentiment," Zyan informed him dryly.

"Look who's talking," Vander accused, although Zyan got the distinct impression that he enjoyed the verbal fencing. "You're the one who destroyed the place, not me."

"I didn't profit by it, though," Zyan replied calmly.

"You're about to," Vander disputed. "There's a piece of black crystal lying in a crate, inside an FSP offical transport, in the portside bay of this station. I've already installed it's two companion pieces, chorded them into the existing systems on Hardesty and in the Trundomoux system. All that remains is the king crystal, which has a cradle waiting for it on Djiel."

"If you think I'm going to divulge any information, you're wrong. I won't participate in any action which aids the Prots."

"Relax, Citizen," Vander smiled. "You needn't worry about the Protectorate. They can't even afford to replace the ordinary comcrystals you shattered, let alone black. They're still paying for their war, and the FSP's forced them into selling their intilla powder to priority buyers at a set price. As for my last piece of crystal..." He trailed off, and went completely silent, his drink forgotten on the table in front of him.

Zyan waited. Vander did not move or speak. He waved his hand in front of the man's face, again eliciting nothing, until he prodded him in the left shoulder.

Vander blinked. "What?"

"Last piece of crystal?" Zyan prompted, deciding to let the man's aberrant behaviour pass without comment, but certainly filing it away for future reference.

"Oh, yes. That's already been bought by the FSP, who want it installed in their own enclave on the planet's surface. The Protectorate has absolutely nothing to do with this at all, save for the fact that it just happens to be on their planet. That's all." Vander assurred him.

"Fine. So why do you need me?" Zyan pointed out the obvious question.

"Because we anticipate trouble from your friends, that's why. I think you might be able to negotiate me safe passage in and out of the enclave on the northwest continent. I mentioned it to those officious fools in the meeting, but as you saw, somehow along the way a simple request for mediation services turned into a hostile interrogation." Vander's expression momentarily turned to one of disgust.

"Northwest continent?" Zyan asked. "Sure about that?"

"In the city of Nyetsin."

Zyan considered the man's words, but for the moment decided to dance around the subject rather than answer him.

"How'd you get them to listen in the first place?" He asked.

The singer grinned and produced a little wallet - inside, displayed as a very natty and impressive looking hologram, was a black dodecahedron - the crest of the Heptite Guild, according to the script beneath it - and, slightly smaller, he fancied, the now-familiar FSP crest. These were displayed opposite a holo of Vander himself and a wealth of official text, including the phrase 'access to the Session of the Federated Sentient Planets and all member governments'.

"So that's pretty heavy, huh?" Zyan asked.

"It opens doors here and there," Vander shrugged it off modestly, leaving Zyan in no doubt that it most certainly was. "Although as you've noticed, once they're open, you often have to jam your foot in."

Zyan arranged a polite smile at the man's quip.

"Jamila McKenzie," he said.

"Sounds an unlikely name," Vander replied, unwilling to be caught off guard by Zyan's sudden interjection.

"It's a cultural thing. How often you see the names Zyan, Ezekiel and Jarvis sharing a line?" Zyan shrugged.

"So, what can Miss McKenzie do for me?"

"Let's get this straight right now," Zyan said, leaning forward. "You wanna get down to Nyetsin town, on the surface of Djiel, install your rock, and depart without being harrassed by the rebellion. Jamila can make that happen. I can put you in touch with her, then we can work out the details."

"Sounds fantastic, Citizen Jarvis," Vander smiled.

"Call me Zyan. There's a price, and conditions."

"Of course there are. Pray continue."

"I can't go to Djiel - I'm a war criminal according to local law. You know that?" Zyan asked.

"Yes, of course. I _will_ want your presence on the surface, though. You're no good to me in orbit."

"That's doable," Zyan nodded. "But any legal hassles that crop up - you flash your trump card there and sort them out, OK?"

"I can guarantee that _anyone_ will recognise this authority." Vander patted his jacket pocket. "And the price?"

"A thousand crs deposited in an account with the FSP central bank, an open ticket for where I want, and one more little thing," Zyan stated calmly, taking another sip from his glass.

"Which would be what, exactly?"

"I'm considering applying to your guild for membership. If I do, you give me a personal recommendation to the President," Zyan finished, and knocked back the rest of the beer, simultaneously signalling the waiter for a refill.

"Guildmaster," Vander corrected, "and that's out of the question."

"Okay - I'll go as low as 800 then."

"You know what I meant," Vander told him, all business now. "You can have the first two items as soon as I can contact the FSP, the real FSP, not this bunch of clowns. The third, though, is not going to happen. Adjust to that now."

Zyan felt like making a rude gesture and saying: adjust to _this_ , Vander. Instead, though, he fell back upon a prepared position.

"Okay, you don't want your reputation on the line. Fair enough. Let's say instead you just brief me thoroughly on how to get in and get ahead once I'm inside. Just in case I decide to try," Zyan offered, shrugging to indicate acceptance and indifference. A shrug, he thought, was one of the most potent weapons in anyone's arsenal of gestures.

Vander's eyes narrowed, and then he shook his head, casting his gaze toward the table.

"There's an entry on the guild in the Encyclopaedia Galactica, as well as most other databases. Have you even looked in data retrieval?" The singer asked.

"They always lie. Standard procedure. I prefer actual facts," Zyan replied.

"The information in that entry is as much as any outsider is granted. The new management might be changing a lot of things, but they're not changing _that_." The man's tone seemed faintly scornful. "No deal, Jarvis."

Vander emptied his drink just as the waiter arrived with Zyan's, and promptly sent the man all the way back to the bar with a haughty gesture.

"Why not?" He pressed the man. "I'm just after gossip I can probably pick up anywhere on your planet."

"Unauthorised landings on Ballybran are prohibited under Section 907, Code 4, Paragraphs 78 to 90 of the FSP Rights and Responsibilities Act," Vander said, almost automatically, it seemed, although the rider to that comment was less so. "Which you'd _know_ if you read data retrieval, _Zyan_."

Zyan bridled a little at the implied discourtesy, but didn't show it.

"And when have I had the chance?" He pointed out. "One hour ago I was on an FSP transport. One week ago I was in a Djielese jail cell. One month ago I was on a rebel airbase."

Vander acknowledged this fact by raising the glass the waiter handed him.

"Fair enough," the man said. "I withdraw my previous statement. The fact remains, though, that I cannot and will not divulge any information on my Guild, just as you would not discuss your own organisation with an outsider."

Zyan frowned. "Then this conversation is at an end. That's," He checked his wrist unit, "a round five hundred."

"I'll have a voucher forwarded to your new address," Vander told him, his voice suddenly dark and foreboding. "Addresses hereabouts are in numbers, Citizen Jarvis. Bed, division and deck. A hundred beds to a division, a hundred divisions to a deck. There is no space for recreation, and the FSP hasn't quite got around to finding a place for all these penniless refugees you've created. There's even been some rioting over food supplies, or so I hear. "

"I didn't create them, Vander, I'm just one of them," Zyan corrected him, seeing where the man was going with this. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"To yourself, yes. To a few others, a leader. Yet more may regard you as a failure. Some, of course, will regard you as a target." Vander sipped at his drink and made a face. "This is an inferior brew, don't you think? They must have just changed the barrel."

Zyan wondered if the man could have somehow heard about the incident in processing, and concluded that there was a possibility that he might. It scarcely mattered, though. The threat was there and it was real.

Zyan glowered at the man and his arrogance, and debated the merits of ramming a piece of cutlery into his forehead. His hands, though, remained resting on his knees.

"The FSP seem to have the place pretty well policed," Zyan bluffed.

"The Marines can't be everywhere at once, unfortunately," Vander said. "It's an outrage, some of the incidents I've been hearing about. People killed in brawls over _drinking water_. Terrible."

"Damn you, Vander," Zyan growled.

Vander laughed. Zyan suppressed an urge to throttle him.

"Amazing - there's an actual temper under the ice-cold killer act," Vander remarked.

Zyan continued to glare at him. "There's also an actual killer under the ice-cold killer act," he said, but the threat sounded empty even to Zyan.

"It's a question of loyalties, Jarvis," the singer continued. "Who do you serve? The revolution is over, and you've escaped. I congratulate you on your good fortune. Now who are you looking out for? A dead cause, or a live Zyan? You can do them both a favour by doing me one."

"I'll still want the thousand and the ticket, plus the five hundred," Zyan grated out.

"Fine. Done. They're yours." Vander held his palms up.

Zyan looked up at the man. Vander suddenly seemed a lot bigger, more imposing, than he had before. Zyan realised that despite seeing the man in action against Nairu and the others up in the meeting, he'd seriously underestimated him.

He sat straight, trying to reclaim a little of the self-assurance and calm the singer had so neatly stripped away.

"Okay," he intoned quietly, and it was almost an admission, acquiescing to a fact he'd been trying to hide. Vander knew the answer already. "You got a deal."

"Marvellous." Vander beamed at him beautifically. "I'll get you a chaser for that beer: you look like you could use it."


	5. Chapter 5

Zyan, with Vander hovering in the background, used the station's backup communications system to send a message with Jamila's personal code. Since Djiel was, thanks to him, currently lacking a working comstation the message would travel along military channels, routed from the battlecruiser stationed around Barnard's Star to, probably, the frigate that Marcus had passed last night. Once in the Djielese net, it would find it's way to her, and she owed him a response. Beyond knowing that she was alive and uncaught, and still based near Nyetsin, Zyan didn't have a clue where she was hiding out, or what she was doing. All he knew was that Jamila McKenzie was influential, a lot moreso than himself, public image notwithstanding.

"How long'll you be on the surface?" Zyan asked.

"No more than an hour or two," Vander answered. Zyan finished his message.

"It's done," he told the singer. They were in a secluded corner of the station's comm room, a long, low and narrow chamber situated near the core, making it less than a fifth of a gee. Zyan, accustomed to conditions of variable gravity, felt almost at home. Vander was less co-ordinated, and Zyan took a darkly vengeful delight in watching the man's flounderings.

"She's accepted?" Vander asked, momentarily, it seemed, forgetting that Barnards Star and Djiel were far, far distant.

"No - this is just a relay message, telling her where we'll be in two days time, aboard your courier. She's got no way of getting back to us," Zyan informed him. Resisting the temptation to add: ' _I thought you worked with comcrystals.'_

Vander snorted in irritation. "Damn backwater."

Zyan glanced at him sourly: once you got past the charm and confidence, Vander was a pretty shallow personality. He cared about getting his crystal installed and everything else, it seemed, was either categorised as a personal insult or an utter irrelevance. Zyan wasn't particularly looking forward to spending thirty six hours with him in the confines of an FSP Speeded Transport. Such vessels, he had heard, sacrificed almost everything for speed, including most of the comforts he had enjoyed on his last FTL flight. There again, the best cruise liner going would have serious trouble measuring up to _that_ trip.

A deferential comm tech tapped Vander on the arm.

"Guildmember: you have your clearance. Bay five portside," the man said quietly.

"I think I know where my own vessel's docked, _thank_ you," Vander snapped in reply. "Coming, Jarvis?"

"Sir yes sir," Zyan muttered, causing Vander to shoot him a narrow-eyed glance as he proceeded awkwardly toward the lift doors at the far end of the comm room. The man kept putting far too much force into his steps, which meant he had to keep a steadying hand on the ceiling. Zyan bounced lightly along behind him.

The small courier vessel was not quite as cramped as Zyan had expected, and at any rate, he was accustomed to much, much worse. The ship had five small cabins and a minimal cargo bay. Zyan took one cabin, Vander, refusing all offers of an escort from Gabrek's troops or Nairu's agents, took another. Zyan resolved to spend as little time as possible with the singer, a promise which he devoutly adhered to. If he did leave his cabin, it was only to go and sit in the co-pilot's seat for a short time, but the pilot, Kefery, was a dour type, so Zyan restricted even these visits to brief courtesy-calls. Not given to small talk himself, he respected other people's preferences for solitude.

The courier may have been limited in space, but one thing it did possess was the standard FSP endorsed version of the _Encyclopaedia Galactica,_ not to mention access to all the interstellar news services, and Zyan spent a good many hours perusing them. He declined to view ' _By Any Means Necessary'_ , the film that purported to be a dramatisation of the raid on the Djiel comm centre.

The sheer wealth of information afforded to anyone, no matter who they might be, astounded Zyan. There were no requests for security clearances, no loyalty checks, and nothing displayed had the ring of propaganda about it. If he was being honest with himself he would have admitted that it was indeed a bit much to take in all at once. However, if the greater part of the encyclopaedia was surprisingly forthcoming, then the entry on the Heptite Guild was refreshingly opaque.

He finally sat down in his tiny quarters to have a serious look at the data pertaining to this mysterious organisation on the second day of the voyage, after he had put in a few hours sack time. They would be entering the Djiel system later that day: perhaps now would be a good time to take his mind off it.

That excuse was shattered as soon as he activated the unit, and it flashed up the current news headlines as it was programmed to.

 _Free elections held in the Djiel system: Coalition government formed. Administration promises a 'new age of peace and freedom'. Key figures from the Protectorate regime to face corruption, war crimes charges. Newly sworn in Pres-_ Zyan de-selected the service with a vicious jab at the keyboard, and then entered his inquiry. Whoever the new President was, it was unlikely to be anyone he knew.

 _HEPTITE GUILD: See also Crystal Singers, Crystal Technology, Black Crystal Communications..._ It began.

Most of the information given was pretty much what one would expect: navigational and scientific details, and a description of Ballybran that described the weather as some of the worst going. The flow of seemingly innocuous text, however, was frequently interrupted by imposingly worded caveats, warning any and all away from landing on said planet and listing the fines and penalties that could be levelled against those who ignored them. Zyan, never overly bothered by rules and regulations, noted it as interesting and then ignored it: the main fact was that anyone seeking to conduct business with/apply to the Guild had to do so on the Shankill moonbase. Fair enough.

The tone of the whole piece changed abruptly halfway through, under the section headed _Membership_. He was no expert on PR or recruitment advertising, but he could've sworn that someone had just entered a whole new section where before there had been something else. It was still a pretty low-key declamation, but it was light years away from the legalistic, unrevealing fluff that had preceded it.

 _The Heptite Guild is now pleased to welcome applications from any and all citizens of the FSP. We need personnel of almost any specialty, but full training will be provided for those demonstrating the requisite skills and drive. All applicants must pass a battery of SG-1 (or equivalent) Physical Fitness and Psychological Profiling examinations. All education levels will be considered, but candidates applying for specialist positions will be required to possess current credentials for their chosen profession._

 _Applicants for the Guild's Fast Track Crystal Mining Stream (Crystal Singers) must meet the following supplemental criteria:_

 _\- Perfect and Absolute Pitch, both in reproduction and perception. This is found only in class a, c, c2 and e humanoids (Type 4 to 8 on the old system)._

 _\- Education Level 3 preferred, but exceptions will always be given sympathetic consideration._

 _So, if you think you've got what it takes to carve out a new life for yourself in the challenging, ever-changing world of crystal technology, then we want to hear from you!_

 _(While the Heptite Guild strives to be a fair employer under the FSP Employment Rights Act, we regret that, for environmental reasons, we cannot accept applications from those with non-standard genetic heritage)._

This fairly standard promotional bumph was followed suspiciously closely by another block of text under the FSP seal, this one returning to the original tone of the entry. It was date-marked an obscene amount of time into the past, too.

 _Attention! The FSP requires full disclosure to prospective candidates of all dangers inherent in profession once physical, psychological and aptitude tests have been passed to the satisfaction of the examining Guild Board._

 _Ballybran is an interdicted world, Section 907-_ It tailed off into more warnings and dark predictions.

That was the kind of thing that positively piqued Zyan's curiosity. Despite the method of his conception, he wasn't genetically non-standard (the new, politically correct term for mutant) and could therefore conceivably join the Guild. Realising he had an hour or so before he had to get some sleep, he moved the cursor down to the section marked _How to Apply._

\- o O o -

Djiel looked as it always did from orbit - absolutely breathtaking. The wide, sweeping intilla fields of the northwest continent were visible from the courier's viewport as it orbited. Differing climactic conditions produced differing colours of intilla blossom - and the vast fields of intilla reached all the way to the equator and beyond. It was just coming up to the harvest season, and the intilla was in full bloom. The plains started off a deep blue in the north, fading into an emerald green towards the equator, and became dark crimson by the south coast. Every single colour under the sun, it seemed, was represented in between. Despite himself, Zyan felt a pang of homesickness, but concomitant with his longing was the disbelief that such a beautiful world as his could have given rise to such an ugly civil war.

"Any answer yet?" Vander demanded from behind Zyan. He was in the cockpit (calling it a bridge would be something of an exaggeration) esconced behind the courier's advanced communications gear.

"A message," Zyan replied, bringing up the coded document. "She's left it stored in one of the movement's old data havens - give me a second to enter my passphrase."

"Make it quick, Jarvis," Vander grumbled.

"Why - you workin' to a speed bonus here?" Zyan replied with a little more sarcasm than he'd intended, because the abrasive personality of the guildsman was once again rubbing him raw.

"I have somewhere to be," The man replied unhelpfully, and Zyan shrugged and decrypted the message.

"There you go," Zyan completed the operation.

"What does it say?" Vander pressed as the terminal bleeped it's completion of the operation, rudely pushing Zyan out of his seat to obtain a better look. "It's still coded! I can't read that!"

"No, it just so happens to be in Djielese," Zyan supplied patiently, and then re-asserted his position with a flick of his shoulder. Vander glowered at him.

"Well, translate it man!" The singer snapped.

Zyan remained silent and stared the man down. Not easy over one's own shoulder, but Zyan could look _very_ bleak when he so desired.

"You could still end up on the refugee levels, Jarvis" Vander said levelly. "Translate it."

Zyan made a soft spitting sound and murmured something in his native dialect. Despite this, it seemed Vander knew exactly what he meant.

"Jarvis," he said warningly, "don't make the mistake of thinking me an off-world pushover. If you want to play the hard game, I can _certainly_ play harder. The Heptite Guild is _very_ influential."

Zyan weighed up his dignity in one hand, and the very real possibility of his death in the other. Vander had the clout to send him packing back to Barnard's Star as a penniless refugee, and Zyan, as he well knew, would be the target of possibly homicidal resentment there.

"Zyan - good to hear from you," Zyan read. "The situation here in Nyetsin is far from stable, but I can guarantee that your client will face no problems from those loyal to me. The word is out. Com me via the following code at any time and I'll meet him, with an escort, at landing co-ordinates 137,236 by 187,970. I'll waive any fee. Look forward to seeing you again. JM. Com code, 4745 so on and so forth."

Vander puffed himself up slightly, now that he'd won the contest of wills.

"That is acceptable," he nodded. "Make the call."

Zyan nodded and reached for a headset.

\- o O o -

The courier touched down in a fallow intilla field in a valley near Nyetsin, and Zyan allowed himself a small, smug grin - it hadn't even been a week yet, and he'd already flagrantly violated the Prot's stern warning not to return to Djiel. He wondered facetiously if he'd broken the current record for violating protectorate edicts.

"Home sweet home, Jarvis?" Vander asked acerbically from behind him. Zyan wondered, briefly, if the man derived some kind of empathic ability from his profession - he seemed to know exactly what buttons to push to wind him up.

"Vander," Zyan stated. "You know I'm an illegal here, right?"

"Repeating conversations bores me, Jarvis," Vander replied disdainfully.

"Just so you know. The courier is technically FSP territory - once I'm off it, I'm in violation. If you're not ready to deal with that, then I oughta stay aboard."

"Absolutely not. If we get into any... _situations..._ with restless natives then I want their little hero along to smooth things over. _That's_ why you're worth a thousand crs to me, Jarvis," Vander replied negatively. Zyan once again suppressed an urge to pound Vander's face against something hard - the man's confidence and charm had quickly turned into arrogance and acerbity.

"If there's any legal hassles, you're sorting it out. Remember our agreement," Zyan told him.

"Yes, I remember. It wasn't _that_ long ago," Vander said dimissively.

Zyan didn't deign to respond, and observed the ground-effect vehicle that approached, instead. It was a large conveyance, of the jury-rigged militarised type that was still referred to as a 'technical' - there was an empty weapons mount on the roof, and ablative armour had been retrofitted over the crew compartment and other vulnerable areas. It travelled swiftly - not threateningly swiftly, but swift enough - toward them, blasting the overgrown intilla stalks out of it's way with it's supporting jets of air.

Kefery had been drafted in to manhandle the courier's only cargo - a crate which bore the same seal as Vander's ID. Zyan assumed that Vander's precious crystal was esconced inside.

The vehicle settled to the ground a few yards away, and the side door slid open.

"Black Zyan," The woman who stepped forth greeted him with a smile. "Didn't expect to see you again."

Jamila had changed since Zyan had last seen her. She had been a battalion commander in the war, and he'd been briefly responsible for co-ordinating her air support - it was the post he'd held previous to his attack on the communications centre. Then, she had worn the green and brown uniform of the rebel ground forces - now, she sported a well-tailored grey suit and a neat haircut.

Her physical appearance was different, aswell. Zyan remembered her as wiry and strong, short for a Djielese, with blonde hair cut close to her scalp for convenience. She had gained some weight since, almost enough to be described as plump, and she'd allowed her hair to grow to a short bob. She'd always been an utterly single minded, highly driven officer - Zyan wondered if her disposition had mellowed along with her dress sense.

One thing she'd kept, though, was an escort. Six men in black coveralls accompanied her, armed with the stubby, chunky weapons Zyan recognised as stunners. They weren't pointing them anywhere, he noted, but they weren't slung over the men's shoulders, either.

"Nor me you, Jamila," Zyan returned her greeting with a pleasant nod. "So what's with the makeover?"

"You obviously haven't been reading the news," Jamila told him wryly. "I ran in the local elections - I'm the new Governor of Nyetsin Province."

That gave Zyan pause. The Jamila McKenzie he remembered would never have ran in any election - she was and always had been an advocate of direct action, and _violent_ direct action at that. It did, however, explain why she'd stated she would 'waive any fee'.

Vander coughed impatiently behind him, and Zyan decided to suspend his curiosity until later.

"Jamila, this is Soros Vander from the Heptite Guild. Vander, meet, well, _Governor_ McKenzie." He made an introductory gesture and stepped to one side.

"CS Vander," Jamila extended her hand with a pleasant smile. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Nyetsin province is honoured by your presence."

 _That_ certainly wasn't how Jamila talked, Zyan thought. 'So you're this crystal bloke' was probably more along the lines of what he'd been expecting her to say.

"Governor McKenzie," Vander shook her hand perfunctorily. "Please have your men stow the crystal in the vehicle - _carefully_ if you please."

If Jamila was offended by Vander's brusqueness, she didn't show it. She nodded at the front rank of her heavies, and two men obediently moved to relieve Kefery of his burden.

"My province was very fortunate to win the contract for the new communications centre," Jamila began. "I certainly hope it's up to your standards, Crystal Singer."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it will be. Could we dispense with the pleasantries until later, Governor?" Vander sounded distinctly bored. "I'm rather keen to get this installation completed."

Again, the old Jamila would probably have put a laser through Vander's forehead for taking that tone with her. However, she simply smiled, nodded, said 'Of course, Crystal Singer', and motioned him forward into the vehicle. She detailed four guards to remain with the courier vessel, and the pair that had stowed the crystal returned to their seats in the vehicle.

 _Wonders never cease,_ Zyan thought, and followed them into the hover. Kefery returned to the boarding ramp. With a deep thrumming noise, the groundcar pilot re-engaged his drives and steered for Nyetsin city.

Vander didn't attempt to engage Jamila or Zyan in conversation - he simply stared out the armoured window. Jamila withdrew a slim communicator from an inside pocket and arranged to have the comm centre prepared for their imminent arrival.

"So tell me Jamila," Zyan spoke. "You gone soft in your old age?"

"It's not like that," she said. "We were fighting for political freedom, right?"

Zyan nodded reluctantly, still having difficulty with this new situation.

"Well, now we've got it, but, if you want something done properly, I thought, you have to do it yourself," Jamila continued. "So I ran for governor."

She certainly had changed. "Congratulations," he finally said, deciding to be politic. "You deserve it, after all you did for Nyetsin in the war."

Jamila smiled a self-deprecating smile. "My military record probably had a lot to do with my success at the polls," she conceded.

 _I'll bet_ , Zyan thought darkly. Jamila had enjoyed a certain reputation for battlefield ruthlessness – she hadn't been big on prisoner-taking. Perhaps he was being uncharitable, but he doubted that she would have held back from intimidating a few voters in order to ensure her success.

"So how's life as a politico treating you?" He asked.

"It's hard work," she admitted. "We were very lucky to get such a prestigious contract as the new planetary comms centre, but our economy is going to be flagging badly for at least two or three harvests, and local industry suffered badly from the war."

Zyan could well believe it. Before the rebels captured Nyetsin, they'd bombed, shelled or shot up any factories they could get at. When the Protectorate forces withdrew before the rebel advance, they'd adopted a scorched earth policy, and burnt what the rebels hadn't already sabotaged.

"Hope you sort it out," he said diplomatically. "How long's your term?"

"Five years," Jamila replied. "However, I've got, well, let's just say I'm viewing this position as a springboard to greater things," she admitted quietly.

She'd _definitely_ changed, alright. Nothing she said sounded like Jamila McKenzie talking - he wondered if it was just a side-effect of being a politician: that everything you said didn't quite ring true.

They passed through the outskirts of Nyetsin, and into its centre. The scars of the war still remained, but there was a great deal of repair and construction going on. Finally, they arrived at a new building. The comms centre was easily the tallest structure in Nyetsin, consisting of a long, thin tower, surmounted by a profusion of dishes, antennae and other technological gizmos. The vehicle pulled to a stop by it's high, vaulted entrance. There were more guards here - Jamila wasn't being shy about her security - and a welcoming party for Vander.

"Sure you wanna let Black Zyan near a black crystal?" Zyan asked Jamila, only half jokingly.

"If you wanted to screw me over on this deal, you'd'a done it already," she replied, sounding for a moment more like her old self.

Vander spared few words for the manager of the centre and his assistants, who looked far more affronted than Jamila had been. However, at her direction, the manager led a steadily more impatient Vander into his building, Zyan, Jamila and the two guards bearing the crystal crate following. It seemed to be critical that no less than three of the manager's assistants trail behind them, and each assistant had two assistants of his own, which he or she had apparently decided they absolutely could not walk along a corridor without.

"Given our past experiences," the manager shot a dirty look at Zyan, clearly recognising him although he hadn't been named to anyone, "we elected to construct the black crystal installation in the lowest level. Obviously this isn't ideal from the point of view of maintenance, but security considerations outweighed these concerns. On your left is our control centre-" The man prattled on, and everyone ignored him save Jamila, who nodded sagely, even though Zyan doubted she had any interest at all in the technical in and outs of her comms centre. It would be more impressive, Zyan thought, when there was money to properly operate it. Everything the man said was predicated on 'we plan that', and 'over the next five years we expect that'. Bottom line - the only reason there was _any_ crystal here at all was that the FSP was footing the bill.

They descended in a lift - thankfully this meant that the nine minions shadowing them had to remain behind - and it disgorged them in a large chamber. Equipment of a communicative nature lined the walls, and four security men were stationed in each corner. The room was dominated, however, by the mounting for the black crystal, a stainless steel skeleton, festooned with cables. Brackets at seemingly random intervals were ready to hold and support the priceless shaft.

"Good," Vander said, seeing all was ready, and striding across to the platform. "The crate."

The crate was duly brought forward, laid by the cradle, and opened. Vander knelt next to it, and looked inside. He reached in hesitantly, and drew forth the crystal. It was wrapped in an inner layer of insulating material.

Zyan became aware of an itch at the back of his head, and a slight tingling which seemed to transmit itself up through his feet. He reached up to scratch his head briefly, but as soon as he moved, the sensation abated, and he shrugged it off as unimportant.

Vander made no move to unwrap the crystal.

"Is everything in order, Crystal Singer?" The manager asked worriedly.

"Pardon? Oh, yes, fine," Vander confirmed, then set about the business of unwrapping the crystal from its swaddling clothes.

In a few quick motions it was exposed, and as Vander removed the last pieces of wrapping, the itchy tingling sensation returned to Zyan with a vengeance, enough to startle a low murmur of discontent from him. No-one else, except obviously Vander, seemed affected at all. He concluded it was the crystal doing something, and remembered the Heptite Guild's recruitment page, setting down perfect pitch as a pre-requisite for CS applicants. Zyan decided he'd just have to endure it, and the sensation wasn't that unpleasant.

Aside from this, however, the vaunted black crystal didn't make much of an impression on him at all. It wasn't black, either - just an unprepossessing lump of colourless rock.

Vander held it before him, and didn't move to install the crystal. Zyan remembered their conversation on Barnard's Star, when the man had drifted off for a few moments. Apparently, he was doing it again.

"CS Vander?" The manager asked him. "Is there a problem?"

"No." Vander's response was quiet, uncertain. "No problem."

"Do you require any assistance?" Jamila asked.

"No," Vander stated, more firmly.

Then, with a few simple movements of his hands, Vander installed his rock, and the comms centre suddenly came alive. Zyan felt the crystal's connection as an almost electric shock, which faded momentarily, leaving only its memory, and the ever-present tingling.

Jamila looked at the manager, who in turn looked at a tech reading from a console. The tech nodded a confirmation.

It was then that everyone noticed that Vander hadn't said anything yet. The manager moved forward.

"CS Vander? Are you quite alright?"

Vander accepted the man's assistance to rise to his feet. He looked pale, shaken and drawn, a far cry from his usual hale, if abrasive, self.

"Crystal Singer?"

Vander made no response. Out of everyone in the room, Zyan knew that only he had even the slightest inkling of what that must have felt like.

"Is it always like that?" He asked. "Like a shock?"

Vander looked at him, nodded his head once, and said the first thing he had said to Zyan which was absolutely honest and without any subtext or agenda. "Always. Worse if you cut it yourself."

"Why would it be-?" Zyan began, but was cut off by Jamila.

"Should I summon medical assistance, Guildmember?" She asked.

"I'll be fine. Just get me back to my ship," he stated quietly. Zyan moved to take Vander's other arm, and between them, they escorted him to the lift.

By the time they were nearing the entrance, Vander had recovered both his wits and his sunny disposition. He brushed both Zyan and the manager off without a thank you, and resumed an energetic stride. The manager, noting his recovery, again began to harangue him with fawning questions. Zyan decided the guy must've been a prot - no-one else could be that much of a bootlicker - but then he remembered Jerblek.

"Yes, yes, excellent centre. Sure there'll be many decades of life in it," Vander responded with minimal attention.

They reached the vehicle. Another, similar vehicle had pulled up alongside to join it.

"Why the extra ride?" Zyan asked Jamila. "Security?"

"Something like that," she said, then turned to the Crystal Singer again. "Guildmember, thank you again for installing the crystal. All Djiel is indebted to you."

"You're quite welcome," Vander said briefly. "I'd prefer to return to my ship as soon as possible, without any further ceremony, if you please?"

"In a moment, Guildmember. There is one small detail I have to clear up first." Jamila nodded at a pair of guards, who moved quickly toward Zyan.

Zyan hadn't survived a civil war by being slow on the uptake. He threw a quick jab at the first guy, which surprised him sufficiently to send him staggering backward, and went for the man's stunner. His next move would be to start using it randomly on everyone, Vander excepted. Maybe.

He never managed to get that far, though. There were more than just two security officers outside the comms centre, and they all made straight for Zyan. He gave a good account of himself, later figuring that he'd probably put two guys in the hospital, but scenes where an unarmed man beat down six or seven others belonged in entertainment vids, not real life. Three more of Jamila's heavies jumped on him, and after a brief and highly energetic scuffle, they wrestled Zyan to the ground.

Zyan unleashed a stream of vituperation in Djielese, aimed largely at Jamila, then fixed her with a glare when she moved into his field of vision.

"Governor McKenzie!" Vander started to bluster. "What is the meaning of this!"

"Major Jarvis is in violation of the terms of his exile," Jamila explained to Vander, coolly and calmly. "I'm surprised you didn't know, Guildmember. He _is_ rather famous, after all."

"I _knew_ you'd gone Prot," Zyan hissed at her.

"Governor," Vander started. "I've retained Jarvis as my guide here. Why, it was _you_ that made the-" Vander stopped as comprehension dawned. "I see."

"Lieutenant Konovalov will escort you back to your ship, Guildmember," Jamila dismissed him. A security officer stepped forward - a bleak-faced, dark haired man. "We'll follow along, just to see you safely away."

Vander started to bridle, until Konovalov charged his stunner with a highly audible _ker-chick!_

"We pride ourselves on using _technically_ nonlethal weapons here on the new Djiel, CS Vander," McKenzie hinted.

Vander said nothing, staring pale-faced at the gun. The barely-veiled threat hung in the air. Zyan guessed Vander rarely encountered a situation he couldn't bluster and snarl his way out of.

"Was there something else I could help you with, Guildmember?" Jamila asked him, the very picture of diplomatic helpfulness.

Vander assessed the situation.

"No, thank you Governor," he said, licking his lips nervously. "I wasn't aware of Mr. Jarvis' status on Djiel, otherwise, of course, I would not have given him passage." He started to back away towards his vehicle.

"I quite understand, Guildmember," Jamila said sweetly. "Thank you again for all your assistance."

Zyan said nothing: he put it all into a glare instead. Vander didn't meet his eyes. He turned his back - looking almost as pale and shaken as when he'd installed the crystal - and let Konovalov guide him to the hover.

Zyan snorted in grim amusement. His present situation aside, seeing Vander humbled had almost been worth it. So much for the man's 'authority'. As always, the ultimate authority came out of the barrel of a gun.

Vander's hover started up. Zyan was hauled to his feet, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was frogmarched into the back seat of the second hover. There were at least a dozen weapons trained on him at any one time - any plans for escape he might currently have would be largely futile. Jamila motioned two guards into the hover with him.

"If you move, we'll just shoot you. No skin off our nose," one of the guards stated flatly, and jumped in next to him.

"Well," Jamila said, almost conversationally, sliding into the front seat alongside the driver. "I think he runs away with the 'most loathsome individual of the day' prize, doesn't he?"

"I can think of another candidate," Zyan grated out. "You got a point at all? Otherwise, don't talk to me."

"Charming as you ever were," Jamila smiled, and shook her head. The hover hummed to life and followed Vander's, out of the city. Zyan wondered why she'd only brought along two guards - there was plenty of room. "This is nothing personal, Zyan."

"Oh, that's okay then," Zyan stated, utterly flatly. "I was beginning to get annoyed."

Jamila ignored it. "I have responsibilities. No, really _ambitions_ , to be more honest. I'm not going to turn you in, Zyan. In a short while, you're going to 'escape'. There'll be a struggle. I'll be grieviously injured, as will my men, bravely trying to defend Guildmember Vander."

"And why oh why will Vander need defending?" Zyan asked in an exaggeratedly bored tone, already knowing the answer.

"Because you're going to kill him, Zyan. This should produce a suitable level of outrage. Then, after an appropriate period of time, when the prots achieve a suitable level of nervousness about your being at large, you'll be caught and killed by my men. It'll be discovered that you were planning a second coup attempt. There'll be evidence aplenty, and I'll be the one who produces your corpse. This will win me plenty of favours from the new government. They're terrified that war will erupt again."

"Very clever." Zyan looked forward at the hover containing Vander. "It won't wash, though. This is cobbled together and you know it."

"I only had two days." Jamila shrugged. "However, with the appropriate spin control, this will make me on Djiel."

"No it won't," Zyan shook his head. "It might get you a better job, but it ain't going to _make_ you into anything other than what you already are."

"Fine words from a war criminal." Jamila barked out a brief laugh, a guttural, unpleasant sound. "Disapprove all you want, Zyan. It won't change your fate."

"Whatever," Zyan said, then pointedly looked out the window. He could be just as dismissive as Vander, when he wanted.

He projected an attitude of resigned indifference. Inside, he was coiled tight as a spring, waiting for his chance. He just hoped he'd get one.

Jamila had put this operation together at _very_ short notice. She obviously only had a limited number of people she could trust - otherwise, why restrict herself to putting only one guard with Vander and only the driver and one guard with herself? Zyan was hoping to exploit this. How, he didn't know, but whenever he got the slightest suggestion of a chance, he'd make a move.

Vander's hover changed course, and pretty soon was several hundred metres distant.

His legs were free. He was pretty sure he could get the guy next to him. How could he distract him long enough to be able to incapacitate him?

"Oh, don't worry about him," Jamila said. "Konovalov is a very experienced operator, he'll take very good care of him. You see, you were quite rough with the poor fellow before you shot him and dumped the body in a stream."

"How very criminal of me," Zyan replied.

"This is after the gunfight at the courier, where you kill the pilot during the escape attempt," Jamila finished.

Only one option came to mind, and even that one only had a slim chance of success. He wasn't going to _get_ any other options, though, so he resolved to try it. They were nearing the field where the courier had landed, and time was running short

"Got it all worked out, sounds like," Zyan said, sounding as resigned as he could. Then he struck.

Zyan twisted himself in his seat with all his strength - feeling the cuffs dig painfully into the flesh of his wrists - and brought a leg round at the guard beside him. He wasn't trying to kick the guy, though - he just shoved his foot on top of the stunner and held it there. Everyone was shouting all of a sudden.

"Shoot him!" Jamila shouted. The other guard didn't know whether to drive or go for a weapon. Jamila reached into her own jacket. The man beside Zyan reacted unprofessionally - instead of throwing Zyan's leg off or attacking him physically, he tried to wrench his stunner free - possibly taking his orders too literally. When he had leisure to review the incident, Zyan concluded that it was this fact alone that had saved his life.

He had maybe a second. With a wrench of pain - with one leg already engaged in an important task, it was awkward - he levered himself up and kicked the driver as hard as possible in the back of the neck. This shoved him into the controls and made the hover lurch violently to the left. Everyone was thrown off balance for a moment.

Now Zyan turned his full attention to the other guard. He slammed his foot into the guy's face with as much force as he could muster, and this time it was a telling blow. The man slumped down unconscious, out of it.

The next part of Zyan's nebulous plan was the part which could, in the vernacular, be characterised as extremely dodgy. Zyan literally jumped into the guard's lap, grasped the stunner, rolled off him and fired it. He got the driver, although being backwards, he didn't know that at the time. At near point blank range, though, he couldn't miss - and the acrid smell of burnt hair soon gave it away.

The driver slumped across his controls, and the vehicle went into a ground-scraping clockwise spiral before ploughing its nose into the dirt. Everyone was thrown up against whatever was in front of them - in Zyan's case, this was the back of Jamila's seat. Jamila and the stunned driver ended up in the windscreen. The communicator crackled to life - Konovalov wanting to know what was going on.

Zyan got up and started firing, twisting his body at an angle and trying to aim.

Jamila dived down behind her seat to avoid Zyan's fire. She poked her own weapon up and fired - it made a buzzing noise: another stunner. A surprised curse escaped his lips as the bolt zipped past his head.

If he stayed where he was, she was going to win. Her hands were free, and his were not. It was as simple as that. Time to roll the dice again.

Zyan got his feet underneath him, and pushed himself over the seat. He rolled backwards to land on top of Jamila, facing upward. Jamila fired again but the shot was forced wide, blackening a section of the windshield. Zyan was practically on top of her. The butt of her stunner whacked into the back of his head with as much force as she could put behind it in such close quarters. Stars flared in Zyan's vision, but the stunner was cased in plastic, not metal, and the blow wasn't hard enough to knock him out.

One last roll of the dice. He fired his own stunner.

A terrible, burning agony exploded into being in the small of his back, and he grunted in suppressed pain as the stun bolt seemed to sear him in agony.

Jamila had caught the full force of it, though. She lapsed into unconsciousness without a sound. Zyan levered himself off her, wincing with agony - stunners might not blow holes in you, but they sure did hurt like hell, and she'd caught him a nasty blow to the back of his skull, too. He felt stiff, weak, and lightheaded. Konovalov was still demanding explanations, and a glance out of the window informed Zyan that the man was turning back to investigate. The smell of burnt flesh and material was added to the already pungent reek of singed hair.

Ruthlessly suppressing his pain, Zyan struggled onto the back seat, doubled himself over, and forced his feet past the cuffs, so he could at least have his hands in front of him. That done, he put a stun bolt into the guard he'd kicked, to make sure he stayed out of it.

The cuffs were nothing complicated - just a simple mechanical lock. He patted the guard down for keys, and found them in his left trouser pocket. A second or two later, Zyan was free, albeit injured. He opened both driver's side doors, and pushed the insensible guards out onto the ground, then assessed the controls. He backed the hover up a few feet, and it held level and steady. It was still serviceable. _Lucky me_ , Zyan thought.

He hoped Konovalov was going to be smart. When he found out that Jamila was out of the game, he hoped he'd know to walk away.

As if on cue, the communicator crackled for attention. Zyan picked up Jamila's gun - it was a smaller version of those carried by her guards - and shoved it into his jacket pocket. Outside, the other hover was very close.

Zyan would love to panic and freak out. Losing it a little really appealed right now. However, he needed to concentrate.

"Governor? Ayers? Talk to me," the communicator chirped. Zyan flicked it to speaker - it was a fairly standard military comm.

"All stunned. Your two buddies are on the ground outside," Zyan spoke factually, not wanting the man to assume they were dead. "I got your boss in here with me - she's alive but unconscious. Make the wise move."

There was silence.

"I can have re-inforcements here in moments," Konovalov said.

Zyan hoped that his original take on the situation hadn't been flawed.

"We both know that's not the situation, Konovalov. You want to explain this to anyone who's _not_ in on the deal?"

Again, there was a brief silence.

"Keep talking," Konovalov stated flatly. Zyan smiled grimly - he'd called it correctly, this _was_ a last-minute scam.

"We exchange Vander and McKenzie," Zyan told him. "It's that simple."

The comm went quiet as Konovalov considered it.

"Okay," he finally responded. "Don't try anything."

"Same for you," Zyan told him. "Now bring your hover to a halt."

The hover ahead slowed and stopped, passenger side to passenger side. Konovalov made Vander get out, and had his stunner pointed directly at the back of his head: stun bolts to the cranium carried the greatest risk of permanent damage or death – and as Zyan well knew, you could rig a stunner to deliver a deadly shot, if you had a little patience and some tools. Konovalov evidently hadn't bothered with any dissembling or lies - a cut over the guildmember's left eye, several ugy abrasions on his face, and a swollen lip suggested that he'd had his acquiescent manner beaten into him. He'd cuffed him, too, but in front of his body, not behind. The crystal singer looked just about as terrified as it was possible to get. He was absolutely white, and he kept swallowing.

Zyan grabbed another stunner, opened the passenger side door, sidled along, and gave Jamila a good shove out the door. She flopped out onto the ground. He kept the gun on Konovalov, who returned the favour. Like Jamila had said earlier, stunners were technically non-lethal, but no-one liked to take chances.

"Send him over," he called to Konovalov.

"Is she alive?" The security officer asked.

"She's alive," Zyan affirmed. "So send him over."

"What about Ayers and Steelman?" Konovalov asked.

"Over there, out of it. Nobody's dead, and nobody needs to be," Zyan answered. Konovalov nodded his acceptance.

"Go," he gestured to Vander. "But move slowly, and don't try to leave my sight."

Vander just stood there, mouth working.

"Relax, Vander," Zyan told him. "Just walk slowly up to the door behind me. Open it, get in, close it."

It took another two reassurances before Vander started moving, one hesitant foot at a time.

"I'm gonna have Vander start us moving forward in a second," Zyan said. "I just want to get outta here. Are you going to cause a problem with that?"

Konovalov's eyes narrowed, but he shook his head.

"When the piece of prot filth on the floor wakes up, tell her she's lucky to be alive," Zyan told him, a simple statement of fact.

"If you come back to Djiel again, don't waste money on a return ticket," Konovalov replied.

Zyan had to hand it to him, the guy wasn't acting as if the pressure was getting to him. Maybe if _he'd_ been in the hover instead of the other guard, things would've turned out different.

"Chill Konovalov - if I ever see this dirtball again, it'll be too soon. Vander, reach forward - slowly, and push the red lever forward a little," Zyan instructed. "Not too much."

Vander still looked pale and shaken, but he complied, and the hover started forward. Zyan kept the gun trained on Konovalov as long as possible, then pulled himself backward into the cabin, calling 'Vander, _down!'_ at the same time.

Konovalov fired a couple of times, but his shots buzzed into the armour behind Vander. Zyan slid behind the controls with alacrity and threw the hover up to high speed. He let rip with a couple of shots out the window for the honour of the thing, but they went way off target.

"Alive back there?" He asked Vander, closing the door one handed.

"Y-yes," Vander nodded.

Zyan didn't make any indication that he was pleased about that fact.

"What are you going to do?" Vander asked.

Zyan didn't say anything - just drove for the courier. A quick glance out the rear monitor showed Konovalov had jumped out of his hover and was manhandling Jamila into the back. Zyan briefly toyed with the idea of turning back and running them over, but judged it to not be worth the risk. He leaned forward as he drove, keeping his back away from the seat. It still smarted, as if he'd been scalded, and he jiggled his shoulders to alleviate the pain. It didn't work - just set his head to aching again.

"Wh- what do you want?" Vander asked again, swallowing. It suddenly occurred to Zyan that the man was afraid of him.

Zyan left it a full thirty seconds before saying: "What does anybody want?"

Vander didn't reply for some time, although Zyan noted that he opened his mouth twice to start a sentence, then shut it again uncertainly. He had to fight hard to keep a smirk from his face. The man finally seemed to gather some sort of resolve.

"Look, Jar-, er, Zyan. I'm a peaceable man. A galactic citizen, for shard's sake, a Guildmember! I'm not used to, to, _violence!_ You can't seriously expect me to have been able to do anything to change the situation at all, can you? Obviously, I was intending to set legal wheels in motion as soon as I was in the courier. There're naval vessels in the area! Even a fleet Captain is subject to FSP Session authority. I would've had a company of marines on the surface inside of an hour!" Vander, Zyan realised with a certain amount of amusement, was pleading with him.

"You were never supposed to get to your ship, Vander," Zyan told him. "McKenzie was gonna kill both of us."

"Kill?" Vander sounded affronted. " _Me?"_

"Yes. You," Zyan confirmed, amused. "Didya think Konovalov would whack you upside the head, cuff your hands, and then just cut you loose to go and complain to the FSP?"

Vander swallowed and looked doubly scared, as the truth of that sank in.

"Whatever for?" Vander asked, hollowly.

"To blame it on me," Zyan supplied. "Then she could produce my body and be a big hero. Gives her a leg up politically."

Vander, in the mirror, looked shocked. "Well, her man _did_ assault me. Before you, well, you know. And then there _are_ these," he looked briefly at the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of tacky and distasteful bracelets.

"Hmm," Zyan confirmed briefly.

"You didn't _kill_ any of those people, did you?"

His back was starting to hurt more and more. He was really looking forward to going through the courier's first aid supplies and taking an eclectic yet effective selection of painkillers.

"Maybe," he replied. It was a truthful enough answer, with no bravado or bluster, but he fancied Vander turned even paler and said nothing for a few moments.

The quiet didn't last long, though. Once he had a few minutes distance from the situation, Vander regained something of his usual character, and started to bluster. "Well, this isn't the last she's heard of _this!_ Plotting to kill a member of the Heptite Guild! I'll have her political head for this! I'll see her brought up before a Federated Court! By Milekey's right eye, I'll see justice done here! If they think that I'm just going to-"

"Vander," Zyan cut in.

"What?"

"Shut up. Then shut up some more."

Zyan had the satisfaction of seeing the man cringe away from his icy tone.

He was half expecting some form of pursuit, or at least for the radio to start issuing orders to stop, but they remained unmolested and uncontacted on the way back to the courier. After a few minutes, Zyan started to feel very cold, and to shake. It was a familiar feeling, one he'd had in the past after action. The events of the past half hour caught up with him, but he resolved not to show a sign of weakness in front of Vander.

The four guards were still in front of the courier vessel. Zyan slowed down about fifty metres away from them, aimed the hover at them, and revved the turbine a few times. The guards stared at it uncertainly, and one reached for a com unit.

"Is there a problem?" The transmission came through.

"That depends if the pilot's still alive," Zyan answered.

"Who is this?" Came the response.

"The guy who just left Konovalov scraping your boss, Ayers and Steelman off the ground. Is the pilot hurt?" Zyan replied.

"No, he isn't. Now listen-"

"No, _you_ listen. I won't bore you with the details, but, long story short, McKenzie's little kidnapping/murder plan has failed and unless you four make yourselves scarce sharpish, I'm going to run you over. If you try and get onto the ship, then I'm straight onto the com to the FSP frigate in orbit and you can decide whether you want to annoy the Marines by making them come in and get you. Me and Vander are getting out of here. Dump your comunits on the floor while you're at it, and unless I see four lying there, by the way, we're back to the running over part of the plan."

A reply came back a moment later. "Major Jarvis, we're not aware of any plan-"

So _now_ they knew who he was. Context was everything. Zyan revved the turbine again.

"-but we're leaving anyway," the man hastened to add, changing tack mid-sentence.

Zyan watched as they dropped their belt comms into the grass and jogged away from the courier. He let them keep going for a good few minutes before he judged that they were definitely out of range, and then he eased the hover forward towards a confused-looking Kefery.

"Home sweet home, Vander." He said, then shot the vehicle's comunit a couple of times with the stunner, got out, repeated the process for each of the belt comms, and then, for good measure, threw the hover's keys into the long grass. Vander and Kefery watched, open-mouthed. Zyan ignored them.

As he trudged up the boarding ramp, his burn aching sharply, and his body crying out for rest, he spared one last backward glance for his home world.

He had a sister here, and two - count 'em - mothers. He'd spent years fighting over possession of this place. Well, they could have it. He was done with Djiel.

He turned his back and let Kefery cycle the hatch shut, remembering Vander's comment when they'd landed.

"Home sweet home," Zyan repeated in a murmur, then expelled his breath in a scornful snort.


	6. Chapter 6

"Well, there's what you've come all this way to see, Zyan," Lieutenant Muertez murmured to him from the next bridge station. "Ballybran. Quite an eyeful, ain't she?"

Zyan could only agree. He could see two moons out of the _Gethsemane's_ forward viewport, but his attention was taken and held by Ballybran itself. It wasn't as visually pre-possessing as Djiel was, but, every time the sun caught an exposed face of crystal, light would flash up from the surface in a profusion of colours. It was an astounding effect, and Zyan's eyes were riveted to the viewport.

A sussuration from his console brought him back to his job: the freighter _Gethsemane_ had found itself in need of a communications officer, and Zyan had possessed, according to his wrist unit, the skills for it.

"Captain, Shankill control welcomes us to Ballybran. We are fifteenth in the offloading queue, instructions for insertion into Shankill orbit are appended," Zyan relayed the message.

"Very good, Comms," Captain Bjornaby nodded. "Please log the message and enter Shankill's instructions into the master computer."

"Message logged, aye sir. Co-ordinates so entered," Zyan tapped out a series of commands, and politely acknowledged the communication.

"Mr. Joronais?" The Captain prompted.

"I have the course laid in, sir," the Nav Officer replied, and the _Gethsemane_ executed a slow series of correctional manoeuvres to place her into her allotted area of space. Five minutes ticked past.

"Watch change," Captain Bjornaby noted, glancing at his wrist. "Well, Mr. Jarvis, journey's end. I expect you'll want to get your gear squared away."

"Yes, sir," Zyan replied. This might be a civilian ship, but since the Djielese rebel forces had adhered to the usual military forms of address he'd found it natural to step back into the protocols prevalent aboard the _Gethsemane_ , which was a large ship, and at the cutting edge of her class. Besides, he had made a decision to actively seek out as low a profile as possible. If that meant playing the good officer, then he was more than happy to do it.

"Hmm," Bjornaby said. "Muertez, I'll be in my quarters. Mr. Jarvis - could you spare me a few moments, please?"

"Yes sir," Zyan nodded, and followed the Captain's swarthy figure to his cabin.

Inside, Bjornaby sat behind his desk, and reached into a drawer to produce two glasses and a bottle. He waved Zyan into a seat, a tacit instruction that they were now on semi-informal terms and no longer on the bridge. "Sit down, Jarvis. Here - have a drink." Bjornaby poured two measures of pale golden liquid. "Old Earth whisky. I keep a bottle by. Cheers!" Bjornaby raised his glass. "Here's to a job well done."

"Thank you, sir." Zyan raised his glass in a polite salutation, and took a small sip of the potent, and highly expensive, drink.

"You've been with the ship for what, three months now?" Bjornaby asked, and Zyan nodded. "All the way from Regulus, yes. Sterling work, Mr. Jarvis, sterling work at all times. We'd have been in a proper pickle without you when the primary array went sideways on us."

"You're too kind, Captain." Zyan accepted the compliment with a slight inclination of his head. In truth it had been a bad situation, when the main navigational sensors had decided to fry themselves in the midst of an FTP jump: without sensor capability, the ship would have been unable to safely drop out of FTL. Zyan was a gifted bodger, though, and had managed to repurpose the ship's primary comms to the task. Problem solved, everyone's life (potentially) saved, and - more importantly - the speed bonus for the run was not lost.

"Not at all, not at all." Bjornaby shook his head. "Credit where credit's due, etcetera etcetera, think nothing of it. You're absolutely set on applying to the Guild, then?"

Zyan had been expecting this. Muertez had been trying to talk him out of it since they'd left Rappahoe, when he'd finally admitted his reason for hiring onto the freighter - he was headed for Ballybran, with the intention of joining the Heptite Guild.

"I am, sir," Zyan replied.

"Well, far be it for me to dissuade a man from his chosen course," Bjornaby told him. The Captain was a likeable bloke - a competent commanding officer who had an easy manner with his officers and crew. "I was young once, myself. Have you really thought this through, though? Guild membership of any stripe is quite a commitment, you know, and the Heptite Guild even moreso."

"I have, sir," Zyan confirmed. "I'm pretty much decided, Captain, but thank you for your concern."

"Quite alright, Mr. Jarvis, quite alright," Bjornaby chuntered in his affable way. "I wonder if I might enquire, though: _why_ do you want to be a crystal singer?"

Zyan had never said that he wanted to be a crystal singer, even though that was his intention. He'd only ever said that he wanted to join the guild. Everyone aboard, though, had nevertheless made the assumption that he wanted to sing crystal. Despite the fact that the Guild was now able to recruit openly for the specialists it was in desperate need of - technical personnel, which was what Zyan basically was - all of those who'd asked him his intentions had immediately said: _so you want to be a crystal singer, huh?_

Zyan decided not to call the Captain on it. "Well, sir, I meet the criteria, and it sounds like an interesting job."

"Oh, no doubt about that. You do know, though, that they say not everyone makes it as a Crystal Singer? I see very few Guildmembers shipping out who _aren't_ , although to be fair that's changed a bit over the past few years, I have to admit. Still, out of everyone that applies, the bare fact is that Some Will Fail." Bjornaby sipped at his whisky, after discharging this comment with the closest he could come to firm decisiveness. The Captain led by competence and good will, not by firmness.

"I'm aware of the latest statistics, sir," Zyan told him. "Despite that, however, I'm confident that I'm in with as good a chance as anyone."

Bjornaby paused for a moment and looked uncomfortable. "Zyan, nothing's been, well, _done_ to you, has it? I heard on the grapevine that you had a run-in with a crystal singer over that Djiel business."

It was amazing, Zyan reflected, that you could come light years upon light years from home, and 'someone' would still know 'something' about him. He'd hoped that his notoriety would fade as the Djielese crisis moved further down the list of headlines, but traces of it still followed him like smelly scavengers that just wouldn't go away. Governor McKenzie's indictment for conspiracy to commit murder hadn't helped - it had re-vivified the story, thanks to the notoriety of her would-be victim's profession, and despite the best efforts of the FSP's PR apparatus, Zyan's involvement had become public knowledge. Plus, there was always someone who'd seen that damned vid-film or some documentary or another and thought he was an expert: and thanks to recent events, there was now a much-embroidered sequel: _Return For Justice_.

For other reasons, he didn't doubt for a second that the Guild knew who he was, and he doubted Vander would've painted a flattering picture of him once he'd returned to Ballybran.

"No sir," Zyan shook his head. "This is my own decision."

"Well, Mr. Jarvis, a man must follow his own course. Should you change your mind, however, just comm me. I'll still need a Communications Officer when I leave this system, no doubt! You're as good an officer as any I've seen, Jarvis, and there's worse ways to live a life than travelling the galaxy, you know."

Bjornaby looked as if he would say more, but then drained off his whisky. Zyan followed suit, suppressing the urge to gasp. He wasn't a big drinker, normally, and this was strong stuff.

"Well, best of luck then, best of luck." Bjornaby stood and held out his hand, and Zyan shook it with an infinitesimal smile.

Zyan promised faithfully to bear Bjornaby's advice in mind, then repaired to his tiny cabin to pack. Despite the year and a half he'd spent working his way to Scoria, he hadn't built up many extra possessions. Just a few clothes, a palmtop terminal, and some software to teach himself, or rather refresh in his memory, the rudiments of voice. Thank God for soundproofed cabins. There was a pretty important concept - off Djiel, anyway - called Privacy, which, whilst sometimes annoying, was a boon when you were screeching out a high C with an almost total lack of any musicality. It was as well that the Guild didn't require any artistic talent to go with his perfect pitch, although a few weeks of intensive practice had gotten him back to the passable voice he'd had before his previous change of careers.

There was one other item in his luggage aswell, carefully disassembled and hidden, disguised as harmless electronic junk. He'd meant to throw it away, he'd told himself he wouldn't need it, and he'd tried to convince himself that hanging onto it was both stupid and paranoid.

However, it was still in his luggage.

There'd been a huge uproar when Vander (who, to Zyan's mind, looked suspiciously hale and hearty considering the going over Konovalov had given him) got back to Barnard's Star. After another thirty six hours in the speeded courier (when he'd asked Zyan no less then twenty nine times if he was okay, and was he sure he was holding no grudges?), Vander had exploded out of the airlock in a fury that Zyan recognised as pure, 100 percent dramatics. The man had been shaken to the core, and he hadn't liked it one little bit. He'd managed to convince the FSP to put out a warrant for the arrest of Jamila McKenzie, and Security Officers Konovalov, Ayers and Steelman, which had exploded into the aforementioned headline. Zyan, laid up in the sickbay of the FSP cruiser _Golden Hind_ under armed guard, had been questioned at length, and then informed that, despite the fact that he really shouldn't have been anywhere near Djiel at all, there would be no further action of any kind and he should count himself lucky that he wasn't being formally charged with something complicated and depressing. It was pretty much all he'd been expecting from the FSP.

Vander, though, had come to visit - even though it was evident that he didn't want to be in the same room as Zyan _at all_. Hovering by the medbay door, he coughed up his promised fifteen hundred, the open ticket, and an extra thousand on top, muttering something along the lines of 'the Guildmaster's thanks'. Zyan had cashed the remainder of the ticket, spent some of the money getting his officer's qualifications properly sorted out, and then took the long way to Ballybran, working his way there. He was in no hurry - Ballybran wasn't going anywhere, after all. It had been a wise move. When the _Gethsemane_ paid off in an hour or so, Zyan would have over six thousand in his account.

He folded all of his clothes and packed them away in a duffel bag, then seated himself by his terminal and accessed the Shankill communications net.

"Heptite Guild, please," he told the comm.

The screen flickered for a moment as the transmission was routed, and then a man's face appeared. He looked around thirty or so, and unremarkable.

"Heptite Guild, Shankill Moonbase. Can I help you at all, Officer...?" The man said.

"What? Oh, yeah," Zyan realised he was still wearing the uniform of the freight line that owned the _Gethsemane_. "This isn't ship's business. I'd like to apply for Guild membership, please."

The man smiled, not in a personable manner, but just as if he'd riffled through his mind and come up with the appropriate set of instructions. _On hearing 'I'd like to apply', execute polite smile number 17, nod slightly, and say:_

"Certainly. You're aware of the entrance requirements for Guild membership?"

"Yes," Zyan responded. "I qualify."

"Excellent. May I take your name, please?"

"Yes. I'm Communications Officer Jarvis. Currently serving on the merchant vessel FSPS _Gethsemane_. We're in Shankill orbit now." Zyan mentally cursed himself for a coward for holding back his full name, and half-hoped that the man might ask him for it. He didn't press him on it, though.

"Thank you," he said. "I've sent you some further details which interested parties are permitted - you'll have access to them until you dock here at Shankill. If you'd like to continue with the membership process, you need only present yourself here during office hours." The terminal bleeped a muted 'package received' as the man talked. Zyan nodded politely.

"Thanks," he said, and cut the connection. Immediately, he called up the man's 'further details', and settled in for a little light reading.

\- o O o -

"-which, I think you'll agree, is more than generous given the circumstances," Guildmaster Lars Dahl of the Heptite Guild said pleasantly to the men sat opposite him.

Dahl was not a man accustomed to having his will challenged (at least, not by just _anyone)_. What he _was_ accustomed to, though, were people trying to get something for nothing, which was exactly what the three representatives from the Hardesty Communications Corporation were trying now. The FSP had put a priority on their order. Fine, as far as it went. The HCC delegation had played on that extensively during their talks over the last hour, but it was, effectively, their only card to play. The FSP could prioritise all they wanted, but at the end of the day, the Heptite Guild controlled the supply of crystal – and they didn't sell it at a loss.

"I might add," the woman seated regally beside him chimed in, her confident tones dropping into the ensuing silence with almost crystal clarity. "-,that it's _highly_ unlikely that any such cuts as we're offering will come up again within the foreseeable future. Granted, passover is finished, but white crystal is rare, almost as rare as black. In short, gentlemen, we're giving you a chance in a million here. I suggest you seize this opportunity with both hands."

Lars regarded his partner - his _everything_ \- for a moment. They complemented each other perfectly in so many ways - not least of which was their usual good cop/bad cop routine during negotiations such as these.

"I believe CS Ree has come to the crux of the issue," Lars told them. Killashandra had, too - the gist of her words was 'we're done arguing with you – take it or leave it'.

The delegation murmured amongst themselves for a moment. The younger man seemed in favour of calling their bluff, emphasising his point with a few brief chopping motions of his hand, but the lead representative wasn't being persuaded.

"Thank you, Guildmaster - we shall accept. We're obliged to you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to come up to Shankill for the meeting." The three rose, and their leader gave a small bow.

"No problem, gentlemen," Lars smiled, and Killa favoured them with a smile of her own.

"Guildmaster, Crystal Singer." The delegation took their leave.

The younger one paused by the door, though. "A time is coming," he said coldly, "when your Guild will have to play by the same rules as everyone else. Sooner than you might think. Certain people have had enough – highly placed people. You may want to think on that next time you bring someone in here to ever-so-politely pick their pockets."

Killashandra opened her mouth to return a sharp reply, but Lars placed a hand on her arm, and in any case the man followed the others without waiting to see what they had to say.

Lars still wondered why Killshandra - who had run the Guild in all but name whilst he'd been adrift in space five years ago - had never accepted the title of Assistant Guild Master. Part of it, he was sure, was her headstrong nature. Killashandra's basic character had not noticeably changed since he'd first met her all those many years ago, and he loved her now just as much as then. Killa would never play second fiddle to anyone, though, and despite his assurances that they'd be equal partners in every decision, she'd stubbornly resisted being an 'assistant' anything. He understood - Killa might have chosen to forgo singing crystal in order to keep her memory, but she was still a Crystal Singer to her bones. He might be the Guildmaster, but on Ballybran, if anyone spoke of 'The Crystal Singer', then they were _always_ referring to Killashandra Ree.

She waited until the doorway had closed, and then expelled her breath in a disgusted snort.

"Arrogant little toerag!" She shook her head. "Did he think we were born yesterday?"

Lars laughed. "In all probability, yes. For some reason, despite hundreds of years demonstrating that we always get what we want, people are always trying to put one over on the Guild."

"Well, they can keep trying," Killa snatched a stack of pencil files up from the desk and deposited them in her case. "We've seen their type before. _Many_ times before."

"Yes, we have. His parting shot was a bit odd, though," Lars said, considering.

"Bluster and sour grapes," Killa dismissed it. "We've heard worse, from worse people."

"And you see 'em off every time with their tails between their legs," Lars smiled at her. "Where would I be without my brave, courageous Sunny to protect me from all the ruffians of the galaxy?"

Killa rewarded him with both a light cuff round the head and a kiss for his teasing, then closed her case. "C'mon. We've got a shuttle to catch. The department heads meeting won't wait forever."

"Yeah, just let me-" The desk terminal flashed for attention, interrupting whatever the Guildmaster was about to say, and he pressed the toggle.

"Guildmaster," Lars answered. "Abry, what can I do for you?"

Abry was the guild administrator charged with overseeing the initial phases of the recruitment program. Killashandra wondered what was so urgent that he'd disturb the Guildmaster.

The com murmured something back, sounding slightly alarmed. "Well, we do still get the odd applicant turning up out of the blue, we're just that kinda place. If he passes, send him on through to wait for Full Disclosure with the oth- _Who?"_

Killashandra did not often get to see her lover surprised, but at that point, the surprise on his face was total. She shot him a quizzical look, and he mouthed 't _ell you in a second'_.

"Hmm. Yes. Well, there's no harm in letting him take the SG-1s. Oh, I imagine he'll pass. Well, I'm sure a lot of people think that, but he hasn't got an actual criminal _record,_ has he? We'd be on very shaky legal ground if we turned him down flat, not to mention that it'd be completely unfair to _him_. Listen - keep me posted, and I'll get back to you on this one." Lars disconnected the circuit.

"Something interesting on the recruitment front, love?" Killa asked, her interest piqued.

Lars grinned at her. "Abry very nearly just had kittens. You'll never guess who just walked up to Shankill reception and asked to apply for membership."

"Who?" Killa asked.

"Your favourite person." Lars' grin grew wider, if possible. "Black Zyan."

" _Zyan Jarvis!"_ Killa exclaimed. " _That little vandal!"_

Killa's annoyance with the man stemmed from a very simple source. The fact that Soros Vander had returned from Djiel terrified of the man bothered her almost not at all - Vander was a pompous fool, and, once Lars had managed to get the truth out of him, she hadn't been surprised he'd shown a complete lack of moral and physical courage. No - the simple fact was it was _her_ piece of black crystal that Zyan had shattered when he'd staged his now infamous attack during the Djielese civil war, and she'd been quietly proud of holding the record for the largest single shaft of black crystal ever cut. Okay, so the _next_ largest was also her work, and the one after that, as it happened, but that wasn't the point. Zyan had willfully, with malice aforethought, smashed _her_ crystal, and she took things like that personally.

"Interesting reaction," Lars noted mildly.

"Hah!" She scoffed. "Get security to throw him back into whatever rusty bucket he crawled out of! No - first, let me give him a piece of my mind." Killa started toward the door. "Damned terrorist."

"I can remember another 'damned terrorist' who ended up as a crystal singer," Lars told her, trying not to be too amused by her towering temper.

"Don't compare yourself to him, Lars," Killa reprimanded him. "The situations are completely different and you know it!" She paused on the threshold to address him.

"They're different only in the sense that the situation on Djiel was far worse than Optheria," he said. "I've read up on this - the Protectorate government was _far_ worse than the Elders. It was like something from the dark times of Earth's early history, and nobody in the outside galaxy even cared it was going on until the intilla exports stopped. I certainly won't condone his actions, but I can understand the situation he was in only too well."

Killa regarded him through momentarily narrowed eyes. Lars returned her look equably.

"Besides," he added, "everyone who matters _knows_ you're the best there ever was. Just because he shattered some of the evidence doesn't make it any less true."

"Hmmm." Killa sounded unconvinced. "Okay - I'll forget where he got his nickname for a moment. Is he still the kind of person we should be recruiting? He can't have any skills useful to the Guild - we're in the business of _cutting_ crystal, not smashing it."

Lars smiled at her acerbic tone. "Tell that to some of the new recruits! Have you been down to the training rooms recently?"

"Stop trying to change the subject," Killa told him. "What has Black Zyan got that we need?"

"He can fly a shuttle, Sunny. We're always short on trained spacers. Besides, he's here to apply as a Singer."

Lars let that sink in. Killa, however, seemed to have got over her initial temper and was considering the issue a little more calmly.

"Black Zyan has perfect pitch?"

Lars nodded. "Apparently so. I think I remember reading somewhere that he dropped out of a conservatory to join the rebels."

Killa looked slightly surprised, and then suddenly smiled.

"Something funny?" Lars asked her.

"Yes - for some reason, he's suddenly become about three notches less scary. I just can't picture a hardened revolutionary studying the performing arts." Killa grinned.

"I might remind you of the one counter-example you _really_ ought to remember. Assuming, of course, that your much-vaunted total recall hasn't started to wane on you." Lars was slightly, and comically, affronted.

"Yes, well, that was _you._ Jarvis is a _real_ terrorist," she prodded him. "They even made a film about him. _Two_ films, actually, now I think of it. Did they make a film about you?"

Lars harrumphed, and Killa laughed afresh at his wounded dignity.

"I'll have you know, CS Ree, that I was just as much a _real_ freedom fighter as the next man. I just happen to have mellowed with age, like a fine wine." Lars drew himself up to his full statesmanlike posture.

"Like a fine something, certainly, but I'm not sure wine would be it," she retorted, but gently. "Very well then - let your pet saboteur through the door if you must. I imagine he'll fail the psych test anyway and be on the next ship out."

Lars picked up his case and gestured for her to exit before him.

"Somehow, Sunny, I don't think this is the last we'll hear about Zyan Jarvis." Lars shook his head.

"No? Well, let's assume he makes the grade. How many potentials do we have waiting for Full Disclosure?"

Lars briefly consulted the terminal. "Hmm. Just twelve at the moment, odds and sods from all over, all applying as singers. We're waiting on two transports from Regulus carrying the latest 'catch' of specialists." Lars smiled as he spoke - that term had never quite fallen out of usage.

"So Jarvis makes thirteen. How portentious," Killa humphed in mild amusement. "Who's on the list for Disclosure right now, anyone we can trust?"

Lars again consulted the terminal. There was, apparently, only one result. "Hmm. Jolinda's name is down here. She and her partner managed to roll their sled down half a rockface and she mangled her left arm. Just plain bad luck. Presnol says that she'll be recovered to just about the right state by tomorrow."

"Jolinda... Tall girl? Black hair? Quite new?" Killa's hesitancy had nothing to do with recall - there was so much to keep on top of as one half of the Guild's leadership that she was not as familiar with individual singers as she would have preferred.

"That's her," Lars replied. "She _is_ relatively new, which is just as well. I don't like assigning Disclosure duty to any of the old stick in the muds. She's too young to really need regression, and she's never flown back in the teeth of a storm yet, so she probably won't _ever_ lose much memory, but she's been raking in the credits from inactive singers sites and I've asked her to sell the concept to the newbies."

Killa nodded. Jolinda, and singers like her, had all joined the Heptite Guild within the last twenty or so years, as Lars' reforms really began to bite. They were comfortable with the new innovations in working methods that he'd introduced, and most of them did well by it. Some older Guildmembers - singers like Borton, who'd been in the same class of 'recruits' as Killa herself - had also found that Guildmaster Dahl's dangerous new ideas had quite a lot to recommend them.

There was still, however, a large faction of singers who did not want to change. Some were too old, too crystal-mazed, or just too contrary to change their ways. Others - established singers who were still relatively _compos mentis_ \- resented and feared the gradual erosion of their traditional pre-eminence within the Guild, and did not wish to surrender one jot of it. These singers cut only their own claims, ignored storm warnings in order to cut as much crystal as possible, and, as soon as they'd made enough credits to go off planet, would disappear from the face of Ballybran for as long as possible.

Unfortunately, they were still in the majority. Lars' new recruitment programs had managed to furnish many of the technicians and specialists the Guild required, but not, unfortunately, as many hopefuls with the requisite perfect pitch to become crystal singers. The old guard remained the most experienced, crafty and (when they _did_ find a good claim) productive singers the Guild had. What was more, in response to the changes Lars was pushing through, they had done something which Crystal Singers had previously never done - they were organising themselves. Not all of the old guard were so cracked that they were completely alienated from the rest of the universe - many had always made use of personal recordings to maintain continuity in their personalities and memories - and others fell into the category of singers who were neither raw recruits or true veterans. These singers had spent one, two or perhaps three decades on Ballybran, and still maintained a lot of memory - especially of their perks and bouts of extravagant spending. They didn't care for a change in their working habits, either. Even some of the support staff, including senior figures whose opinions and experience could not be ignored, were uncertain about some of Lars' policies. The upshot was a slow but steady separation of the Heptite Guild into two distinct 'camps' - those that approved of change, and those that didn't. Three times, he and Killashandra had been visited by a delegation of three senior singers voicing increasingly strident complaints. It was not a situation the Guild's leading couple could afford to ignore.

Killashandra herself had once thought she was the worst sort of singer, one who lived only in the present and cared only for credit and crystal, but, thankfully, events had shown otherwise. She had to admit that there were few experiences in life as thrilling as finding and cutting a new claim for the first time, and there was certainly a place left in the Heptite Guild's philosophy for locating and singing new sites. The fact still remained, though, that results were what counted, and they were needed _now_. The Heptite Guild had always been renowned, respected and, she had to admit, a little feared. It was, however, still a long way from recovering the prestige and wealth it had possessed at the height of it's powers, and its more traditional members were holding it back from this goal.

"Well, why don't you assign Disclosure duty to Jolinda, and ask her to pay special attention to this character tomorrow. If she thinks he's here to cause trouble, we can always stop him getting on the shuttle." Killa suggested.

"Not a bad idea," Lars conceded. "Although if I remember the news correctly, he's somewhat notorious for getting onto shuttles he's not supposed to be on."

Killa snorted. "This isn't Djiel."

"Thirteen is an awfully small class, though," Lars went on, "I don't want a return to the bad old days of tiny classes, and this smacks of backsliding. The last five classes have all had over forty members."

"True - but never more than one or two singer hopefuls among them. The specialist orientation teams have been overworked, and singer orientation has barely been happening at all. Let's take this opportunity to kick some life back into it."

Lars considered it - when Killashandra gave an opinion, he always considered it very carefully indeed. In Guild matters, her judgement was something akin to holy writ.

"You're right," he decided. "I'll brief Jolinda tonight."

"Good. Letting him through does have _one_ big advantage, Lars love," Killa said.

"What's that, Sunny?"

"Well, Vander's claim got trashed at passover, and he hasn't found a decent one again yet. Ergo, he hasn't been cutting, which means he still remembers Djiel. When word gets out that Black Zyan's on the surface of Ballybran with a sonic cutter and an airsled, he's going to fall to pieces overnight." Killa's grin was evil.

Lars guffawed in laughter. "Y'know, I do believe you're right."


	7. Chapter 7

Zyan was bone tired.

He was used to fatigue, both of the combat and non-combat varieties. What he wasn't used to was feeling this wrung out simply from a series of _tests._ If the severity and complexity of the Guild's entrance examinations were any indication of how hard a crystal singer was required to work, then, assuming he'd actually _passed_ , he was in for a lot of serious graft.

It had begun with a medical examination - Zyan had undergone his fair share of these. He'd always kept himself in good physical condition (as if his life depended upon it, actually, which it often had), but he wasn't used to medicals being administered by a _machine_. The device used was intrusive and claustrophobic, but he'd not been overly bothered by that, until, at the very end of the test, it had given him the very worst shot of pain he'd experienced since his precipitous exit from Djiel. He'd thought the machine had malfunctioned, but just as he was about to heave the apparatus off with a curse, the pain had stopped, and the device had retracted away. His irritation with this must've shown on his normally impassive features, because the meditech at the workstation had taken an involuntary step backward when the equipment retreated.

Then followed something Zyan had absolutely no experience with - a psych test, again administered by a machine. He did, however, have lots of experience with Protectorate loyalty tests. The trick with these was to create a sort of loyal persona within your mind and let it do the talking - that way, you could be fairly sure that you'd stay out of the re-ed camps. He adopted the same approach with the pysch test - he thought of a sort of amalgam of FSP citizens he'd met, and let that supply the answers.

Lastly, he was subjected to the most gruelling examination of his aural and vocal abilities that he'd ever experienced, and he was intensely glad that he'd elected to put in those many hours of practice aboard the _Gethsemane_ , and just as intensely glad that he hadn't been asked to keep a rhythm or recite any lyrics. Throughout the test, he half expected, with a cold feeling in his stomach, that he'd be asked to define the use of discordant counter-harmonies in modern off-world concertos or something similarly unsettling, but the Guild was apparently only interested in two things - recognising notes, and singing them back accurately and at length. Testing of his reactions and kinesthetic sense followed - the civil war had been a far more exacting test of those abilities, and he was still alive to have them - but the effort and concentration involved had left him in his present state: bone tired.

He exhaled hard and relaxed back into the testing chair as the screen darkened. The meditech who had introduced the tests returned once more.

"So I pass, or what?" Zyan asked, in no mood to be polite.

The inoffensive little man smiled without warmth. "Yes, you'll be pleased to know that you passed. If you'd care to follow me, your belongings have been transferred from transient accomodation to the Guild's own residences."

Zyan nodded, and levered himself up and out of the chair. He wasn't worried about someone handling his luggage for him - what he had to hide, he'd hidden well, and there was no better giveaway to one's secrecy than to guard it too evidently. The Djielese Crisis had been a good tutor in these matters.

The man led him down three levels and through a series of corridors (Zyan had now had the dubious pleasure of being aboard four or five stations, and had noted one common factor: they all went in for the labyrinth effect). They fetched up by a series of identical doors distinguished only by individual codes - the room assigned to Zyan, it seemed, was:

"Candidate Room Z-1." The Guild man indicated it, with a nod.

"How very appropriate," Zyan murmured. If the Guild man heard, he gave no indication.

"Privacy is achieved by registering your thumbprint." The man unnecessarily pointed out the little biometric sensor by the door. "You will find your belongings inside upon the sleeping unit."

Zyan couldn't resist it: "Sleeping unit?" He raised an eyebrow, then tapped the door. "That make this the opening and closing unit?"

The Guild man demonstrated a minor amount of humanity by having the grace to look slightly sheepish. "Well, the, um, bed."

Zyan allowed himself a thin twist of amusement to the lips. "Thanks."

"You're quite welcome. There is a relaxation and catering area at the end of this corridor, and I believe some of the other recruits are gathered there. Full Disclosure is scheduled for tomorrow - your room will wake you in good time." The man rattled off this last almost automatically, and then proceeded back the way he'd come.

"Night then," Zyan muttered to himself, and entered the room. It was one helluva lot larger than the cabin of a junior com officer on a freighter, plain in colour but comfortable. Zyan's belongings were indeed upon the grandiosely-titled sleeping unit. He locked the door behind him with his thumbprint.

He was getting more used to life in the FSP: "Room?" He asked.

"Sir?" A low metallic voice replied.

"I'd like to make a recording - are there any sensor devices in this room?"

"Privacy laws are in effect here. Medical sensors only. The Information and Communication Suite has the usual array of devic-"

"Never mind. Quiet please." Zyan smiled. FSP and security just didn't seem to go together. He crossed to the bed and zipped open his bag. With a glance at the door, which was still just as closed as it had been seconds before, he withdrew three objects. One appeared to be a large, thick pen, another a shaver, and the third a small personal communicator of an unremarkable type that might be owned by anyone.

They were the result of a few hours hacking on the trip back from Djiel. The speeded courier had possessed a reasonably well equipped toolkit. Zyan was a fair hand with electronics, and he knew a few things: such as how to conceal a weapon as a harmless piece of personal technology. It couldn't be constructed very quickly, but Jamila's stunner had not proven too challenging to strip down to it's essentials and re-work into a new form. He assembled it quickly - even after drilling with it, it still took several moments: longer in the dark. The finished item wasn't pretty - it was uncomfortable to grip, and some parts were exposed, but Zyan knew it'd work. There was still plenty of charge on it - he'd feared that in his tinkerings he might have damaged the battery. That done, Zyan stripped it down again and stowed the pieces back in the bag. If the big day was tomorrow, he saw little point in unpacking anything he was unlikely to need.

He didn't _think_ he'd need the stunner ever again. But he _knew_ that if the situation ever came up where he did, he'd curse himself for a fool for not having it.

He'd just cleared away the evidence and was eyeing the caterer speculatively when the door chimed softly.

"Someone desires entrance," the room said, in what Zyan thought was an unnecessarily flowery manner. Mind you, it was better than hearing 'there's a walking/talking/breathing unit at the entrance/exit unit'.

"Thought I told your computerised arse to shut up," Zyan murmured, then, louder: "Open." He couldn't see much point in being anti-social.

The panel hissed aside to reveal a tall blonde woman, dressed in an unassuming shipsuit that nonetheless showed off a lithe, sleekly muscled, lightly tanned frame. A pair of blue eyes regarded him, and a pleasant smile brightened striking features.

"Hi. You're new," she stated by way of greeting.

"And improved," Zyan finished the old advertising chestnut, and the girl evidently recognised it, as it produced a brief increase in her smile and a soft snort of amusement. "Zyan Jarvis," he supplied.

"Aviczue Cahrera," she told him. If she recognised Zyan or his name as anything out of the ordinary, she was keeping it to herself. "From Yarra."

"Good to meet you." Zyan nodded.

"And you," Aviczue told him. "So anyways, a bunch of us are down in the Lounge. Well, all of us, truth be told. You up for a drink and a chat?"

"Frequently," Zyan lied - but he was smart enough to know when a bit of networking was necessary. Depending on how this membership thing went, he could be spending a rather long time with these people. The canny thing to do was suspend the hardman act for a while, he figured.

"Okay, cool," Aviczue nodded, two words almost as old as human civilisation itself. "You want to freshen up or..?"

"Nah, I'm good," Zyan told her.

"That's what they all say at first." Aviczue delivered this line with a mischievous twinkling to her eye, and stepped aside to allow him to exit the room.

Zyan refused to be taken by surprise, but his comeback wasn't as sharp as he'd like: "Some of us even mean it."

"Most of them _think_ they do," Aviczue opined.

 _In for a penny..._ Zyan thought. "Any number of ways to find out."

"Sometimes guessing is more fun." They walked down the corridor side by side.

"You do this with everyone?"

"Pretty much," Aviczue admitted as they emerged into a comfortable lounge area. "And here we are."

There were eleven others - five men and six women - seated around a large table. Aviczue led him up to them.

One of them - who was equally as blond and blue eyed as Aviczue, but built strong and powerful rather than slim and lithe - had already noticed their approach. He looked right at Zyan, and Zyan knew when he was being appraised. The blond guy had the look of a military man, cut from the same cloth as Gabrek or the heavyworlder guardsmen. Not as big, perhaps, but very definitely the same kind of man. His hair showed signs of only just recently being allowed to grow beyond a few millimetres in length, and he sat straight and rigid in his chair.

The man recognised him. No doubt about it, and his look was utterly neutral, not unfriendly, not welcoming, just neutral. Zyan knew exactly how to give that look, and gave it right back for a moment, before reminding himself to play nice and arranging a pleasant smile.

"This here's Zyan. Zyan Jarvis from, where'd you say you were from?" Aviczue announced, and then asked him.

Immediately, three of the others looked up in extreme interest.

 _Here we go,_ Zyan thought heavily.

"Djiel." It was the blond man who answered - neutrally.

"Now however did you know that?" Zyan replied. He didn't quite manage neutral: just sarcastic.

Aviczue had not let this slip past her. "You famous or something?" She asked.

"Not exactly," Zyan replied.

"I can tell you don't read past the sports pages in the daily newsfeed, Vitzi," one of the three interested parties said, a slim, black haired man seated with a dark skinned girl on a couch, but the barb was softened with a grin.

"Major Zyan Jarvis," the military guy said. "Late of the Djielese Rebellion."

There was quiet while that sank in. _Thanks a million,_ he thought toward the impassive man.

Couch guy was the first to break the tableau. "Well, if you do decide to blow the place up or stage a revolution or anything, let me know. I got breakables in my room I oughta pack if so." He grinned.

A year ago Zyan would've torn into someone for a quip like that. Now, Zyan recognised it for what it was, an opening to relieve the tension that threatened to build up. Zyan forced his pride down and called up a smile.

"Nah - I'm trying to give that up. Cleaning bills are a real drag, y'know?" It was an uncharacteristic comment for him to make, and purposefully so.

"Glad to hear it." The man stood up. "Tornaz Molovsky. How's about y'there?"

"Fine, thanks." They shook hands.

"You want a drink there Major Jarvis?"

"Zyan'll do. I'm retired. And yeah, thanks. I'll take whatever's going round."

"Zyan it is. We're on the Yarran beers - at Vitzi's insistence." He rolled his eyes. "There's always one Yarran somewhere advocating the stuff. Lord knows why."

"That's simple, Tornaz. It's the best drink in the universe," Aviczue defended herself, but there was no annoyance in her voice.

Molovsky nodded. "She may have a point. I'll go grab you one while Vitzi introduces you around."

"Vitzi?" Zyan asked her under his breath.

"It's a nickname. At least my name doesn't sound like an element in the periodic table." She was still playing. The tension had died aborning, thankfully. Almost.

Aviczue made introductions, but came to the blond military guy last. She seated herself next to him and took up a drink beforehand.

"And this is Marin. Marin K'Tar Janso. He was a military guy, like you," she said. "Fleet, yeah?" The man nodded, once.

"I wouldn't say I was a military guy," Zyan shrugged, still playing his role. He damn well would - he'd fought a war, how more military did you want to get?

"Neither would I," Marin rumbled. It was clear he wasn't referring to himself.

"How marvellous for you," Zyan murmured back.

"Military implies discipline," Janso said - clarifiyng the meaning of his previous comment.

"Also intelligence," Zyan returned flatly.

Aviczue gave a brief laugh. "Boys, boys - enough with the testosterone already!"

"Well said." Tornaz had returned, and offered Zyan a tall glass of reddish beer, which Zyan accepted with a nod. "This whole thing is about new beginnings, makin' a fresh start, am I right?" He asked, and received general agreement. "So, well, hell - new beginnings!" He raised his glass, and everyone, even Janso, echoed the toast.

The remainder of the night passed convivially, although notably Zyan and Janso did not exchange any further words. They did, however, exchange the odd look. This did not escape the notice of Aviczue, who regarded these silent exchanges with wry amusement.

So Zyan made his little effort to fit in and, by and large, he thought he'd managed it when he returned to his room a couple of hours later. He resolved not to let Janso's silent hostility get to him. Straight laced military types were always uptight, and he was only one person out of the whole group. The smart thing to do now, Zyan decided, was to get a good night's sleep without worrying about anything else. He'd achieved one phase of his eventual goal - he could safely relax until tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

Zyan was woken the next day by a soft chiming from the room. Ever a light sleeper, he was awake and alert after a single soft note. He wondered if he'd ever lose the habit of waking up ready for anything from an artillery strike to a bellowing sergeant, and then wondered if he _wanted_ to.

"Yeah?" Zyan growled at the room. He might usually be alert when woken, but that didn't always equate to graciousness.

"Full Disclosure will take place in one hour in Briefing Room One. Candidates are requested to gather in the Lounge in fifty-five minutes," he was informed.

"OK," Zyan said gruffly, and seriously considered appending 'wake me up in fifty four minutes then' to the end of it. He chose the path of caution, however, and swung his legs out of bed (or his walking units out of the sleeping unit, as the Guild man from the previous night would no doubt put it). Would this Full Disclosure be given by another soullessly efficient Guild drone? He wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to contemplate a future doing a reasonably convincing impression of a robot.

A few minutes later, he was washed and dressed - he'd never cared overmuch for extended ablutions in the morning or evening, even before his stint as a soldier. As was his wont when not compelled to wear a uniform of some description, Zyan chose black, or dark colours. Today he opted for a black coverall over a grey, bodyhugging shirt, and tied the sleeves of the coverall around his waist. They were utilitarian clothes and suited him well. He paused for a few more minutes to have a bowl of cereal, and then decided to head out to the Lounge, to see if there were any others ready in similarly good time.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Janso had already made his way out to the Lounge. He sat in his customary straight-backed posture, as if he expected, at any moment, that a senior officer might enter the room to the accompaniment of a bosun's pipe. Zyan was not normally given to whimsy, but for a moment he contemplated the possibility of somehow obtaining a bosun's pipe, or at least simulating the sound, just to see if Janso would leap to attention. Two of the women from the night before had also arrived before Zyan, including Tornaz's companion, the dark skinned girl. She'd been introduced to him as Pharisa, and, in her previous existence, she'd been a computer specialist. She was a direct, no nonsense sort, which Zyan could relate to, although her pairing with Molovsky indicated that there was a sense of humour in the mix, too. Both women offered polite greetings as Zyan sat down nearby - Janso didn't even look at him.

"Stay up late last night?" Pharisa asked. She had retired relatively early with Tornaz.

Zyan shook his head. "Hour or so after you left. Those tests wiped me out."

Janso made a soft sound. Despite being entirely non-verbal, he nevertheless managed to convey that this revelation surprised him not at all.

Again, Zyan stepped on his irritation. In the past, he would have demanded satisfaction, or at least cast a threatening glance toward the offending party. The new, FSP-friendly Zyan, he reminded himself, was above such behaviour.

"You can say that again. I thought I'd prepared myself thoroughly for the pain threshold test - I'd had one before, it was a work thing - but I damn near bit my tongue in two!" Pharisa laughed.

Zyan cracked a sympathetic smile. "I felt like trashing the machine," he admitted truthfully.

They continued to chat for the next few minutes, while more of the candidates filtered into the room, including a tousle-haired Tornaz.

"You gotta wonder," Tornaz said, yawning, "exactly what it is about the Guild and singing crystal that makes the FSP go through all this rigmarole."

"Didn't you read all the available information, Molovsky?" Janso asked levelly, as if addressing a junior officer. Tornaz glowered at him, and despite the fact that he _knew_ it was petty, Zyan took some satisfaction that he wasn't the only one who was irritated by the blond spacer's manner.

"'Course I did." Tornaz shrugged. "It was as good a job of low-blow as I've ever seen."

There was a brief pause.

"Okay." One of the girls - Rhanui, Zyan thought he remembered her name - spoke up. "I'll bite. What's low-blow? And so help me, Tornaz, this better not be the sort of joke I suspect it is."

Tornaz grinned. "Lots of words - but little of worth," he said. "I did lots of homework, Marin. You want to know what I found out?"

Pharisa groaned, but everyone else (all thirteen aspirants were now present) seemed keen to allow Tornaz to continue.

"Next to nothing. The PR machine is on, but nobody's home. You have to look in the news archives to find anything. Are you all aware that FSP policy toward the Heptite Guild has changed radically over the last five years?"

He received a mixed response of shaking heads and tentative nods. Zyan remembered some of Marcus' comments.

"Hmmm... Very disappointing. You lot are a pretty lame bunch of students, y'know," Tornaz chided them.

"Get on with it, Tor." Pharisa gave him a nudge with a sharp elbow, provoking a hurt look from her target, and some quiet laughter from the group.

Tornaz shrugged and plonked down next to Pharisa, shedding his lectorial manner. "Okay so, up 'til maybe five years back, the FSP treated the Guild like it was one step up from criminal. No recruiting - at all - restrictions up to here, you name it, the FSP had a reg forbidding it to the Guild. 'Course, they were also shippin' crystal outta here like it was goin' outta fashion, too, but besides the cash they didn't seem too grateful, you follow?"

"I am aware," Janso said levelly, "of recent political history regarding this Guild and it's relationship with the Federated Sentient Planets."

Zyan glowered at him. This guy could annoy him from the next room.

"Then, all of a sudden, bada bing,-"

"Bada who?" Pharisa asked, to general amusement.

"Hey, I do the jokes, Phar," Tornaz said, affecting disgruntlement. "Five years ago we start to see a few changes. Suddenly, the Guild can recruit specialists. Applicants do not necessarily have to become crystal singers - if you wanna come here to be a doctor or a geologist, by all means bring your scalpel or your seismograph with you. This class is the exception, not the rule, you know."

"No," Zyan said. "Actually I didn't."

"Well, you've been busy these past few years, I hear," Tornaz quipped.

Such a remark would not normally raise a smile from Zyan, but in the past few minutes he'd started to formulate a plan whereby he would appear to be gregarious and sociable, thus shifting Janso into the 'threatening loner' position which he normally occupied himself. He decided to run with it.

"It's been a little on the hectic side, yes," Zyan replied.

This got a laugh from the group, which gratified Zyan a little. One could almost see them thinking, _'well, if he can make a lighthearted quip about it, it can't have been that bad.'_. The corollary of which was, of course, that Zyan _himself_ couldn't be that bad.

Janso played into his hands. "I would not joke about such things," he said. "The dead would not make such comments."

The stifling effect was immediate. People looked down and away from Janso.

"Where'd you get that from, the latest edition of ' _1001 Things Guaranteed To Stop A Conversation'_?" Molovsky asked him, possibly in an attempt to lighten the suddenly sombre mood.

"Since none of you have seen the aftereffects of terrorism save from the news feeds, you do not realise that Jarvis is making light of a _real_ war, with _real_ civilian casualties," Janso said, and turned to Zyan. "You ought to be in rehab."

Zyan stared at him coldly for a moment. FSP Zyan was gone, at least for now. The old Zyan surfaced, and stood. Janso stood too, the two men facing off from a yard apart.

"Two points," he said. "Point one: I am not, nor have I ever been, a 'terrorist'. The rebellion did not set out to spread terror - it set out to bring down a regime based _on_ terror. Know what? It worked."

"Believe what you wish," Janso replied. "And your second point?"

Zyan could actually _feel_ the desire to sink his fist into Janso's face as a physical sensation. It must have shown, because Aviczue stood and interposed herself between the two men.

"Take it down a notch, both of you. Let's have no violence here," she said, laying a restraining hand each on Zyan's and Janso's chests.

"Violence?" Janso snorted.

Aviczue was right on the money. Point two was supposed to be Zyan lamping Janso in the face, but some caution and social sense started to return. Zyan gave a soft snort, then turned to the girl with a smile. "Yeah, right. Thanks, Aviczue."

The situation appeared to have been defused, and not a moment too early, since as Zyan was easing himself into his seat, the far door swished open and the second crystal singer Zyan had ever seen walked in.

That the woman's left arm was in a sling was probably the first thing everyone noticed, but Zyan once again noted the _otherness_ of the crystal singer. She was tall, with jet black hair cut very short, and deeply tanned. She was sharp-featured, and despite her injury moved with confidence and grace.

"Good morning," she announced in a warm contralto, with a pleasant smile. "I'm Jolinda. As a crystal singer, I'm here to give you the Full Disclosure briefing. First on the agenda is _this."_

Jolinda unwrapped the bandages she wore, exposing what must have been a truly nasty wound when she sustained it. The crystal singer's upper and lower arm had been completely mangled. What skin hadn't been slashed open had been bruised and abraded. Some of the group made soft shocked noises, others winced. Only Zyan and Janso - who had both seen worse in their careers - affected no surprise.

"Should you maybe be in hospital or something?" Tornaz asked her.

"I was," Jolinda replied. "Two days ago I was involved in a serious landslide in an airsled. My arm was caught between the sled and the ground."

"Two days," one of the women repeated in disbelief.

"Two days," Jolinda confirmed, binding the wound up again. "I'll show you this again later, at which point you will believe that I'm not lying."

Following this eye-opening start, Zyan was prepared for the rest of Full Disclosure to be fairly extreme, but he was in no way expecting what followed. If it had to be put into an executive summary, it would go something like this:

 _What we're about to tell you is so shocking you literally have to agree to have your memory of it wiped if you decide to back out of it. Nobody? Okay then. Ballybran will basically try to kill you in almost every way a planet can, but almost all of the ways apart from the weather are pretty much redundant, because mach storms have got the whole killing-inhabitants thing covered and then some. Here's a few preserved bodies in tanks, because we really mean it when we say Ballybran is dangerous and nothing drives that home quite like a dead body floating in a tank. Also the actual stuff you're about to commit to cutting out of the ground and spending most of your working life in very close proximity to is also pretty deadly if handled wrong, and can also steal your memories and basically rewire your brain if given half a chance._

 _If this has somehow not persuaded you that a career in crystal singing is a Really Bad Idea, you may want to hear the upsides. Well, first off, all life on the planet – which will include you, after ten days on the surface – exists in symbiosis with the Ballybran spore. This little critter can make you stronger, faster, more perceptive and increase your lifespan by centuries; or it can – big surprise! – kill you stone dead after a painful and intense bout of suffering. If it doesn't do either of those things it can leave you disabled, but probably not, because we've learned a thing or two about who makes a good host over the past few centuries and we're pretty sure you're it. Oh – no kids. The spore is all about individual survival, but it doesn't get on too well with the human reproductive system._

 _Also: cash. Quite a lot of it, if you're lucky enough to find black crystal and somehow evade a horrible death long enough to cut it, pack it and bring it back to the guild HQ. If you've seen singers living it up somewhere on holiday, though, and thought it could be you? Probably not very often._

 _Oh, and if you do get to leave the planet again at any point, don't stay away too long unless you want to suffer – big surprise again! - a horrible and painful death._

Jolinda took quite a while getting through this – she was very well spoken, and quite good at imparting information.

"I said I'd show you this again," she said, once more unwrapping the bandages. Her wound was noticeably improved. It still looked serious, but if it continued to heal at that rate it wasn't going to be for much longer.

There were expressions of awe from everyone gathered.

"You have now been duly informed of the dangers of living on Ballybran. If you have - very understandably - been dissuaded by what I have told you, then please remain here. Someone will be in soon, who will deal with erasure and the legal formalities," Jolinda told them. "If on the other hand you wish to become a Heptite Guildmember, then follow me."

And with that, she left through the same door she had entered. It swished shut behind her.

Zyan considered what he'd just seen and heard. To say that it wasn't what he'd been expecting would probably be a serious contender for Understatement of the Millenium.

He wasn't overly bothered by the risk of death. Zyan had faced, well, _livelier_ threats to his existence - and of the kind where one didn't get a helpful warning beforehand. Becoming disabled, though, be it mental or physical - that was something to consider seriously. Zyan had always been a fit and active person, with good reflexes, acute senses and a quick mind. How would he deal with losing one or more of these blessings? _Could_ he deal with it? His mind started to grind over gloomy possibilities, and he looked over the rest of the group.

Some of the aspirants who had formed relationships of one kind or another were discussing their decision together, but there was no group discussion taking place. As it happened, though, Janso made his decision for him. Zyan saw the blond spacer look in his direction, then lean forward, preparing to stand. There was no way in hell that Zyan was going to look as if he'd been swayed by Janso's decision, so he stood up first, practically leaping to his feet with a sudden motion that caused everyone to look at him expectantly.

"What?" Zyan asked of the room at large, somewhat irritably.

"Are you-?" Tornaz asked him.

"Um, yeah," Zyan said. "Course I am. See y'all later. Or, y'know, not." He directed this last at Janso, then walked through the door Jolinda had indicated. On the way there, he decided that he would've probably made this decision anyway, and decided not to think about it any more. There was a time for introspection, and a time for decisiveness, and ninety-nine percent of the time, the latter was the ticket.

Beyond the door was the familiar sight of a standard-issue FSP flunky (Zyan was still not inclined to be charitable toward FSP representatives of any stripe). The woman indicated that he should take a seat opposite her at her desk, then subjected him to a barrage of questions regarding the disclosure. Zyan, who was becoming increasingly more irritated as the interview progressed, gave curt and minimal replies.

"Do you swear, aver and affirm that-"

"Yes, for God's sake," Zyan snapped. "Can we get on with this?"

"I have to go through this, citizen," the woman said, unperturbed, then repeated the legalistic statement. Zyan agreed in a bored tone, swished his wrist unit across the scanner, and, as another door opened, walked through it without waiting to be asked. The woman's voice, wishing him a successful career, tailed off. Zyan caught her saying 'well, really' to herself in an offended tone before the door closed behind him. He didn't feel particularly happy with himself - maybe the Crystal Singer attitude was even more infectious than the spore.

Jolinda was waiting in the room he entered, leaning against the far wall. Zyan arranged a polite smile and nodded at her, remembering that this was a member of the Guild he wished to join, and that he'd better play nice.

"Thought you might be the first," she said. "I wanted to thank you."

Zyan was surprised. "Why?"

Jolinda cracked a grin. "For scaring the life out of that pompous ass Soros Vander. Few people had it coming more."

 _If she knows that_ , Zyan thought, _then presumably she knows other things about me_. "Glad to be of help, CS Jolinda. I also do kid's parties and weddings."

His quip earned him a continuance of the grin. "I was surprised to see your name on the applicant's list," Jolinda told him. "All things considered."

"Maybe I just figured that I'd try and replace a bit of what I smashed," Zyan replied.

"Maybe so. Or maybe you did your homework, ran some numbers, figured out this'd be a good way to score the credit you'd need for a return engagement." It was a question, and it hung there.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it, but I'm through with Djiel." Zyan arranged an unconcerned shrug. He wasn't lying, but he needed Jolinda to get that he wasn't. "Also, there's the whole maybe-never-being-able-to-leave-here-again thing you just ran through, which would kinda ruin the chances of that plan. At any rate, I'm all about a nice peaceful life, now."

"You were actually _listening_ just now, weren't you?" Jolinda asked him quizzically.

"For a given value of 'peaceful', of course. I'm not after boring - I could just do with avoiding any actual _wars_ for the rest of my life," Zyan amended his statement.

Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of Janso. Jolinda indicated the seats in the room. "It may take a while to get everyone processed - I was told they were short staffed, today."

Jolinda did affect a pleased air when the last candidate entered and the entire group was reassembled. "That's everyone, then. Thanks - you guys just earned me 50 creds."

"You receive a commission for this, Guildmember?" Janso asked. "That was not mentioned in the information we were given."

If Jolinda was irritated at the repressive tone, she didn't show it. "Nah - I had a bet going with another singer. To be honest, it's more about the expression on his face than the credit." She grinned. "If you'll please follow me, there's a shuttle waiting to take us to the surface. Welcome to the Heptite Guild, ladies and gentlemen. You don't have to be mad to work here, but it can be a useful occupational skill."

\- o O o -

Jolinda led them aboard the shuttle and directed them to sit at the back. The lock was about to be sealed when they were halted by a shout.

"What's the hold up, Celee?" Zyan heard Jolinda ask the pilot.

"My current favourite passenger,"the pilot replied sourly, but then his voice took on an impish air. "Still thinks she's an intergalactic screen star and, for some reason I cannot fathom, she gets away with it. I've been flying Guild shuttles for literal, actual _centuries_ but she is by far the biggest pain in the-"

The pilot was interrupted by a female voice. "Jolinda! _Darling_! I am _so_ sorry for the hold up. Could you be an absolute dear and have one of the little fishes from your catch carry these bags for me? They are fiendishly heavy."

The owner of the voice was a tall, black haired woman possessed of almost goddess-like beauty who strode onto the shuttle as if she owned it.

"Shecherzia, hi," Jolinda replied neutrally. "Back from Baliol, I see. The 'little fishes' are all grown ups, by the way, you can ask them for help yourself."

Zyan was surprised when the girl in the seat next to him gave vent to a gasp. "Oh my God, that's Shecherzia Alar!"

"Shechy who?" Zyan asked.

"Shecherzia Alar!" The girl told him. " _The_ Shecherzia Alar!" This, apparently, was all that was needed in terms of clarification.

Now that he looked, though, Zyan did think she seemed vaguely familiar, and not from Djiel. Then he recalled: she'd starred in a vidfilm he'd watched in the crew messroom on the _Gethsemane_ , and it hadn't been a recent one. It had also been awful.

"Oh, yeah,"he replied. "Actress. Right."

"She retired from vids like twenty years ago! She doesn't look a day older!" The girl said.

"Well, she wouldn't, if she's a crystal singer," Zyan told her.

This exchange did not escape the woman herself, who bestowed a beaming smile upon the awestruck girl. "It's always such a pleasure when one is recognised by fans. Could you two be very, very lovely and bring a couple of tiny bits of luggage aboard for me?"

Zyan privately thought she could carry her own bags, but since the girl immediately sprang to her feet and he had the aisle seat, he had little choice except to stand to let her out. Once up, he realised it would look somewhat churlish to leave her to do everything, so he followed her to the hatch.

The 'couple of tiny bits of luggage' turned out to be two dozen matching trunks and suitcases, none of which came equipped with anti-grav. A tanned man in colourful clothing was already struggling with one of them – her boyfriend?

"Oh do come _on_ , Danlo, it's not _that_ heavy!" The ex-actress called from the shuttle.

"D'you wanna hand with that, mate?" Zyan asked. The man merely shot him a disgusted glance and made no reply. Zyan shrugged and picked up a case.

He was stopped in the hatchway by the woman herself. "I can't shake off the feeling that I've seen you before, somewhere," she observed, with a puzzled smile.

Despite himself, Zyan couldn't help but be affected by her beauty and that smile. She certainly had charisma: even without the odd glamour of the crystal singer, he suspected she would have. Then, in the process of cueing up an answer as to where she probably knew his face from, he remembered that he was not a gushing teenage fanboy but a very recently ex-revolutionary who was being blocked from carrying a very heavy thing aboard a shuttle by the very person who had requested help with said heavy thing and wasn't showing any inclination to get her own hands dirty with lifting.

"I doubt you have, CS Alar," he said. "I can't shake off the feeling that item number three of your extensive luggage collection is currently stress-testing my back and shoulders towards a painful sprain, you wouldn't mind letting me actually bring it aboard and put it down, would you?"

Jolinda failed to hide a snort of laughter. Shecherzia's expression was – for a split second – as icy and cold as the space outside the shuttle, but then softened into a picture of contrition.

"Of course, how very selfish I am,"she said. "And now I _do_ recall how I know your face, the very last thing I want to do is stand in your way, Black Zyan." She moved aside and motioned him inside with a dramatic flourish. "Onward to victory, young hero!"

Zyan gritted his teeth - a few people laughed. On his way out to get another case, the colourfully dressed man shot him another dirty look. Either he was ridiculously jealous of her attention or he thought Zyan had been rude to her, which he supposed he had been, but she was hardly a picture of reserved decorum herself.

The rest of the luggage was duly hauled aboard – a couple of the other recruits took pity on their beleaguered comrades and also pitched in to help. Shecherzia was effusive and completely insincere in her thanks to everyone except her partner, who she merely berated to be careful as there were 'valuable breakables in that case you're heaving around like an Anvarian pseudogorilla'.

Given the very cool expression she'd turned on Zyan, he was very surprised when Shecherzia looked at him with a smile and patted the seat next to her own.

"Would you care to join me for the flight?" She asked. Her boyfriend looked darkly livid at this.

 _Nope,_ Zyan thought. "I already have a seat back there, thanks."

Shecherzia patted the seat again. "I _insist,_ " she insisted. "It's not every day one meets a genuine intergalactic celebrity."

"I thought you'd retired."

"I was talking about _you_ , Mr. Jarvis. My days of fame are behind me – I have, like you, chosen instead a simple life of toiling upon the ranges of Ballybran. I _do_ have a few contacts in the old business, though – this may be to your advantage."

Jolinda rolled her eyes. The pilot spoke up: "Can _everyone_ please sit down so I can get this bucket underway?"

"There, you see, it's official now," Shecherzia said. "Sit! Sit sit sit!"

Zyan sighed and sat. The shuttle clunked and whirred and parted company with the lock.

"There, much better. Now, we seem to have got completely off on the wrong foot, or is it off on completely the wrong foot? I'm such a scatterbrain sometimes." Another charming laugh. "Let's start again. Hello, I'm Shecherzia Alar, pleased to meet you."

"Zyan." Zyan said curtly, now immune to the charm.

"Well, Zyan, this is always a short trip, so I'll be brief. During my recent travels I happened to see a couple of vidfilms based on your very daring and laudable exploits in the cause of freedom or independence or whatever it was this time. Stirring stuff, anyway," Shecherzia told him.

"And?" Zyan said.

" _Quite_ the stoic one, aren't we? The whole man-of-few-words thing is starting to pall a bit, to be frank-" she shot a narrow-eyed look at her partner as she said this, "-but never mind, that's hardly your fault." Shecherzia then leaned conspiratorially close and dropped to a purring murmur. "Have you heard of the term 'likeness rights', Mr. Jarvis?"

"No," Zyan said.

"Well, do look it up for yourself, but in a nutshell if someone makes a vidfilm about someone, then that someone is usually approached with some credit, or promise thereof, in recompense for being the subject. I am willing to bet that dear old Carazian somehow neglected to have a word with you about this."

"Who?"

"Carazian Theremino, the director. Such a dear man, and such a _rascal_ when it comes to crossing the Is and dotting the Ts in vidfilm contracts, one of which you were not asked to sign. Tell me I'm wrong and I'll shut up."

"You're wrong."

"You're lying."

"You didn't shut up."

"I never do, dear, until I'm good and ready." She patted him on the knee. "Now, those two films did rather well. I hear there's talk of nominations for the Galactics for the first one – if only it could be spun out into a trilogy: people love trilogies."

"Final approach, ladies and gentlemen," the pilot said.

"Better make your final approach, too," Zyan told Shecherzia.

Shecherzia giggled. "Oh I _like_ you, Zyan Jarvis. Very well. I have some contacts in the industry, still, one of whom is a _very_ talented litigator. A veritable attack dog in court. Now, I dare say that in return for a modest percentage of the really very impressive settlement my attack dog could rend from Carazian's unresisting flesh in court to compensate you for being so ill-used in the article of likeness rights, I could make sure he takes your case. Lesser lawyers may well fail, but my man - my very difficult to retain man – has a far greater chance of success. The first few years as a singer can be _very_ challenging financially: a nice fat stash of credit to help see you through them could be a great comfort."

 _Modest percentage my rear end,_ Zyan thought, but she was a guildmember and everyone was looking, so he summoned up a polite reply. "Thank you for the kind offer, but that's a part of my life I want to put completely behind me. I don't want to get involved in any lawsuits – it might bring back bad memories," Zyan replied.

"Oh, you need not be concerned with that. I'll handle all the details," Shecherzia said.

The shuttle thunked down onto solid earth, and the hatch started to cycle open. Fresh air blew in, scented of dust and shuttle exhaust.

"Really, no thank you. Nice of you, but no," Zyan said. _Take a hint already,_ he thought.

"Care to suggest a way I might persuade you?" She asked quietly. She didn't flutter her eyelashes – she didn't have to. _No shortage of self confidence, have you?_ Zyan thought.

"You're seriously going with that approach?"

"Find out if I'm serious, then – you might even have _fun._ Gasp!" Shecherzia unleashed a dazzling smile to accompany her intimation.

"Wow. Maybe I wasn't clear. No deal, CS Alar," he clarified quietly.

Shecherzia's lips set in a firm line, and for a moment she looked furious, then recovered.

"Well, if you do change your mind once the guild fees start to mount up, do drop me a line. The longer one leaves these matters, though, the harder it becomes to-"

"I said no," Zyan cut her off, this time louder.

The furious look was back. This time it didn't go away. "As you wish, _guildmember_. Now move: you're blocking my exit."

Zyan undid his restraints and stood. "Onward to victory, middle-aged heroine," he said, with a much less ornate version of her flourish. It was a bit shitty, he told himself, but a) she looked about twenty-five and would for centuries, if Full Disclosure was to be believed and b) she was a proper cow.

Shecherzia shot him a withering look. "Welcome to Ballybran, Jarvis," she said, as she stood. "Breathe deep, little fish." She filled her lungs then exhaled. "Only a very, very tiny percentage of the catch end up _permanently_ impaired, these days. I'm sure there isn't the slightest chance it'll happen to _you."_

"CS Alar!" Jolinda protested.

"Pah! He's all grown up, Jolinda, you said so yourself," Shecherzia told her. And with that, she left, apparently not giving a single solitary damn about her luggage. Her partner treated Zyan to one more hostile look – not a patch on Shecherzia's – and followed her.

"Well you made an impression," Tornaz commented from behind Zyan.

"Sorry," Jolinda said. "She's, um-"

"She's amazing!" The awestruck girl finished the sentence for her, then, seeing Zyan's expression, looked slightly shamefaced. "Sorry – how often do you meet an intergalactic star, though? Really. I know she was being kind of mean but tell me that wasn't cool as anything."

Zyan didn't reply.

"If you'd care to exit the shuttle?" Jolinda hinted.

The hatch opened not onto a boarding tube but the plascrete of a landing pad, scorched with burns from thrusters. Fresh air was blowing about in abundance - their exposure to the spore had begun. Normally not given to flights of fancy, Zyan nevertheless imagined the microscopic lifeforms entering his lungs, penetrating the alveoli, and beginning their ten-day redesign of his DNA, reworking what nature had already wrought. He smiled to himself - he might be no mutant, but there was precious little 'natural' about his genes. On the assumption that since he'd made the decision, an accepting attitude couldn't hurt (and he wasn't about to act hesitant after Shecherzia's parting shot), he breathed in deeply. _Come on guys, I got a great spot picked out for you. Not much of a view, but the location's great. Make yourselves at home._

Jolinda took her leave, climbing into a skimmer that swept over to meet her. Recruits were evidently expected to proceed on foot. They were entreated to make their way to 'Entrance B5', and from there, follow the dark grey strip to the recruit's quarters. Zyan shouldered his bag and started walking.

The dark grey strip deposited the by now somewhat bewildered recruits in a lounge area, which was ringed with numbered doors: individual guest rooms, Zyan guessed. A man in a dark suit was waiting for them. He indicated that they should be seated, and when the last recruit had done so he cleared his throat.

"Welcome to the Heptite Guild's Joslin Plateau Headquarters – usually just called the Guild cube. These will be your accomodations until you have achieved transition. From now on, you will be designated as Class 1999." The man's voice was a deep baritone, and was pitched with a reassuring tone. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and looked to be in his mid forties.

"Aw," Tornaz chimed in, "we just missed being 2000." Pharisa elbowed him into silence.

"My name is Abry, and I will be your instructor. Your training and orientation will begin tomorrow. For the rest of today, I advise you to get settled in and relax - because I assure you, for the next ten days, you will be learning and working extremely hard. Since this class is exceptional in that all of you are here with aspirations to be Crystal Singers, we will be skipping _some_ of the - by now - usual evaluations of your other skills. I can't promise it will be easy, but I can promise you that it will be interesting."

The man then enjoined them to get something to drink, and food if they were hungry. Once all the recruits were so served, he went on to lecture, starting with the layout of the Guild cube and fielding the occasional question. Abry's classroom manner was of a markedly informal and seemingly rambling nature, but evidently he knew a little something about how to impart data to people, as Zyan found himself remembering the information as well as any briefing he'd ever attended.

Abry finished by informing them that tomorrow they would begin learning about Ballybran's weather and the history of the planet, and asking if there were any questions. There were not, and the man took his leave.

Everyone, with the exception of Janso, then headed over towards the catering panels to investigate further food and drink options. Zyan started to follow them, but hesitated. He didn't look forward to ten days of arguments with Janso – if it carried on, the rest of the group would probably avoid _both_ of them as much as they could. He walked up to the man, who was still seated, as if awaiting permission from his senior officer to stand up.

"Janso," Zyan said.

Janso eyed him with disapproval. Zyan fought down the urge to tell the man exactly what he could do with his disapprobation.

"Have you come to finish what you nearly started, Jarvis?" Janso said. Zyan was unsurprised that Janso had sensed the imminent violence earlier.

"Manner of speaking, yeah. Listen, it's pretty obvious we're never going to be bosom buddies. Fine: but we got ten days at least with no choice but to be in the same unit. How's about we ignore each other as much as poss, and keep any necessary interactions to a polite but minimal-as-possible-minimum, so we don't end up annoying the hell out of everyone else?" Zyan asked.

Janso considered it. "That is acceptable," he answered.

Zyan nodded, and walked away to join the others. In the convivial conversation that developed over the next two hours, Zyan stayed to one side and Janso the other.


	9. Chapter 9

Given what Zyan had known about Ballybran's weather before he'd even set foot on the surface, he'd expected it to be A Big Deal for the locals. He wasn't quite prepared for _how_ big, though. It probably wasn't possible to fit an entire degree course in meteorology into ten hours, but on day one of orientation, Abry certainly seemed to be having a fair crack at it.

You could see why he was making the attempt. Mach storms were so far beyond anything Zyan had ever had to contend with that at first he had trouble imagining them, but the recorded video the class was exposed to rendered imagination unnecessary. If you could weaponise mach storms somehow you'd make a literal and figurative killing as a weapons dealer. This, and Abry's undeniable skills as an educator, counteracted what might otherwise have been a rather soporific series of lectures.

Guild history was equally fascinating, at least to Zyan: he saw one or two of the other candidates suppress yawns from time to time. The early settlers had been thinned out pretty quickly - they hadn't known about the spore. The early video records were like something out of a horror film. The colony had come very close to being written off as an uneconomic failure, since agriculture looked to be an expensive proposition, until the geologists got around to analysing the properties of the crystal: then, it was boom time. The FSP, though, looked to have been permanently influenced by the initial disaster - they never let the guild recruit openly. Abry didn't give a straightforward explanation of how, exactly, the guild had managed to maintain it's numbers over the centuries. Even when Tornaz out-and-out asked the question, Abry merely replied that due to the long lives conferred by the spore, the guild had managed to get by solely on passive word of mouth.

"That, however, started to not cut it-" the class chuckled dutifully "-about a decade ago, although the seeds of the crisis had been sown a long time before that. Guildmaster Lanzecki - our previous Guildmaster - was a capable, respected man who set in motion the beginnings of reform, which, now that I look at the clock, will have to form the start of tomorrow's lessons. After lunch, we have an appointment with the Hangar Officer, who will evaluate your skills on the various surface craft we use here on Ballybran."

Abry bowed out for a while: lunch was duly got.

"Well, that was fascinating," Tornaz said dryly as he sat down with a tray of food next to Zyan. He was one of the ones who'd yawned. Pharisa joined them a moment later, followed by a quiet guy who'd been introduced as Hollin Langtry. Janso sat elsewhere.

"I've heard worse," Zyan replied. "Must've sucked to be one of the early colonists: welcome to your new world, enjoy it, you've got a week and a bit before we bury you in it."

"Hmm. Dark," Tornaz replied.

"Goes with the nickname," Zyan shrugged.

"I'm not looking forward to the afternoon," Hollin volunteered, slightly nervously. Zyan decided that the guy was probably making an effort to be social despite it not being his strong suit, and decided to reciprocate.

"Ah, you'll be fine. What did you do before?" Zyan asked.

"I'm a lawyer, um, I mean I _was_ a lawyer," Hollin answered. "Not that I've lost my qualifications, or anything. I still _could_ be a lawyer. I just meant that I'm not here to be a lawyer, I'm, um-" Hollin tailed off.

"Lemme guess: the other lawyers got tired of being verbally outmanouvered in the courtoom and made you leave?" Tornaz guessed sarcastically.

"Give the guy a break, Tornaz," Zyan shot the man A Look, at the exact same time as Pharisa elbowed him.

"You'll have to ignore Tornaz, he's an idiot," Pharisa smiled. "What was your speciality?"

"Interplanetary contract law," Hollin replied.

Tornaz yawned again, while Pharisa glared.

"Well, you must've travelled a fair bit, so shuttles and whatnot can't be that new an experience," Zyan tried to sound encouraging.

"Um, not really," Hollin replied.

"Well, I'm, uh, sure you'll do just fine," Zyan failed to sound encouraging, but Hollin nodded anyway.

"You're a pilot, Zyan, aren't you?" Pharisa asked, to move the conversation along. "You'll probably be qualified already on the type of craft they have here."

Zyan shook his head. "I can fly most anything short of your real specialist stuff like asteroid mining kit, but I haven't got a qualification, no, except as a comms tech."

"But you _know_ you can do it," Hollin said.

"Don't worry man, you can't crash a sim anyway. Everyone knows you _would've_ crashed, but you can't actually break anyth-" Tornaz contributed. Hollin paled.

Zyan ran out of patience and interrupted him. "God's sake, Tornaz. It'll be fun, right?" Zyan glared at the man as he said this. Tornaz's expression, around a mouthful of food, was impish.

Tornaz finished his mouthful and looked at Hollin. "Sorry, Hollin. I'm just messing with you. You'll be fine."

Hollin didn't look convinced.

Zyan gave it one more try. "I knew a guy who was a, well, not quite a lawyer, but he had a desk job. Something to do with logistics, I forget exactly. _Anyway_ , come the war, he signed up, ended up a gunship driver. Good one. Takes all sorts."

That seemed to reassure Hollin, or, at the very least, he decided he really wanted the subject dropped, which given Tornaz's needling Zyan could sympathise with.

The recruits made their way down to the hangar at the end of lunch, Abry pointing out a few places of interest along the way – the meteorological department being the primary one: "Expect to spend a lot of time in there in years to come."

Zyan wasn't bad at remembering maps and plans – it had been a good skill to have, in his previous line of work – so was mildly surprised when they turned off the main route to the main hangars and instead took a side corridor.

"We're not going to the hangars?" He asked. Janso looked to have been on the verge of opening his mouth, too, presumably having noticed the same thing.

"Not today," Abry answered. "Almost all active singers are out in the ranges, thanks to the spell of calm weather we've been enjoying. It won't last – it never does – but right now there's nobody going in and nobody going out. The Cargo Officer, who you'll meet shortly, has taken the opportunity to have her people do some essential maintenance. Since she's asked any non-essential personnel to keep out of the hangar, you'll have to wait. This is a short cut to the simulator room, via the airsled repair bays."

The airsled repair bays (usually referred to as the sled shop, or even just the shop, Zyan was to discover later) were a series of large, spacious chambers dedicated to the construction, maintenance and repair of the crystal singer's primary vehicle.

The emphasis definitely seemed to be on repair. Zyan saw several of the vehicles that looked very much as if they'd gone a few rounds against club-wielding giants and lost badly. Burned out drives also seemed to be a dominant theme.

The final – and biggest – chamber in the sled shop was what could only be described as a junkyard. Sleds in various stages of disrepair were arrayed around it – hundreds of them, if not thousands.

"Are all these sleds waiting to be repaired?" Pharisa asked.

"No." It was Zyan that answered, not Abry. He knew very well what was going on. Zyan pointed to where a work crew was divesting a sled of one of it's drive units. "They're ripping them for parts."

Abry didn't deny it.

"Is that safe?" Hollin asked.

"No," Zyan answered.

"Such measures are only taken in situations where parts and materiel are difficult or impossible to obtain," Janso said.

"Yeah," Zyan agreed. "We used to do quite a bit of this, back on Djiel, but then again we weren't a galaxy-spanning guild."

Abry held his hands up. "I can assure you, there is a rigorous quality assurance process that any components taken from here must undergo. Nothing damaged or unsafe is fitted to operable sleds. However, these damaged sleds represent a valuable source of spare parts which the guild has a responsibility to make use of."

"Don't the owners object?" Tornaz asked.

"No: they're all dead," Zyan told him, having just done a quick guesstimate.

"What?" Pharisa asked.

Abry was silent.

"Remember Jolinda's full disclosure," Zyan said. "There used to be 4000 odd singers, now there's 400 odd. That leaves at least three and a half thousand odd sleds no longer in use – and here they are."

Abry coughed. "There are actually only 2000 or so, but yes, you are in essence correct. When a singer is no longer active, their possessions revert to the guild. They can no longer make use of them, and the guild has obligations to be as efficient as possible."

"Harsh," Tornaz said.

"But fair," Abry stated. "Now, if you'll follow me?"

As they finished their walk to the simulation room, Zyan reflected that this little episode had not been unintentional. It served not only to emphasise how serious a matter it was to fly safely before they were assessed, but also, Zyan guessed, to prepare them for a few home truths about the guild. Crystal may very well sell for staggering prices, but the guild was not behaving as if it was swimming in credit.

When they reached the sim room – a large chamber housing several simulator units – Abry turned to face them.

"Janso, you're already qualified on everything here. Would you mind stepping straight into the sled simulator so we can see how you handle typical flying conditions?"

Janso gave a curt, jerky nod. "Understood."

This mildly peeved Zyan, if he was going to be honest. He'd bet he'd been behind the controls of a great many more types of craft than Janso had, and without the benefit of military training. Still, what were you going to do?

"Everyone else: whatever expertise you may have behind the controls it isn't, unfortunately, official: so, starting with the skimmer over there, let's see how you do. Anyone who passes the test now will be free to check out a skimmer for personal use in their off hours. Weather permitting, this can be a great way of exploring the area around the guild cube."

Zyan dutifully took the skimmer test and passed: instead of moving onto the sled, though, he waited so he could help Hollin. The craft were almost ridiculously simple: the man's only real problem was confidence. Following Zyan's example, another girl called Colina also decided to help, and was actually a lot more use than Zyan was. Hollin was very grateful to both of them, but clearly his attention was taken by Colina.

"That was nice of you," Aviczue told Zyan, after Abry told Hollin he had passed, to a comradely, good-natured round of applause from the others. They were waiting to try the sled sim.

"Well, if one fails, we all fail, right? You help your team out," Zyan responded.

"That's what I was taught at the police academy," Aviczue said.

"You were a cop?" Zyan was surprised. "You didn't say."

"Hasn't come up, yet." Aviczue shrugged.

"Why'd you quit?"

"It's complicated. I was seconded to the FSP Diplomatic Protection group. Bodyguard work. It didn't quite fit my personality and I didn't want to go back to the Yarran PD for...personal reasons."

"Miss it? The old team?" Zyan asked.

"A bit. Yarrans are a sociable bunch by nature, and I don't think it's like that here," Aviczue said, sounding a little sad. "Singers work alone, don't they? I get the idea they're not team players."

"I think they pair up, sometimes," Zyan replied. "And if two singers can cut together why not more than two? We could all work together and agree to split the proceeds, probably there's some economies of scale to benefit from and if it _is_ as dangerous as everyone keeps hinting darkly, then the bigger the team, the safer we are."

Avizcue laughed. "Economies of scale. Hah! Are you sure you weren't a business coach?"

"Pretty sure I'd've noticed," Zyan replied.

"It's not a bad idea, though. I wonder if they've ever tried it, cutting in teams?"

"We could ask," he suggested, but then it was time for them both to step into one of the sled simulators. Unlike the skimmer sims, these were enclosed, so Hollin would perforce be on his own when his turn came round.

They were more complex beasts than skimmers, Zyan thought, as an AI-based tutorial program ran him through the various controls. Nevertheless he didn't encounter anything to give him pause. After a few minutes of very basic manoeuvers, a human voice cut in over the AI.

"Okay, recruit, let's assume you know what you're doing. I'm the Flight Officer. Care to try something a bit more challenging?" The voice asked – it was a man, quite brusque.

"Please," Zyan said. "I'm falling asleep, here."

"We'll see about that," the Flight Officer told him.

The program flickered and changed. Zyan found himself looking out into a narrow ravine. The sled readouts told him there were strong winds blowing across the top.

"Singers primarily run into problems in two situations: taking off, and landing. In between you're up at altitude and, barring any malfunctions, you're going to stay there, relatively safe, until you head down again. This program – of my own design – will run you through take-off and landing problems of increasing difficulty. Points are awarded for successfully ascending to a safe altitude and for performing a safe landing. Points are deducted every time you hit something – and you will hit a great many somethings," Flight said.

 _Challenge accepted,_ Zyan thought with relish. "Thank you." He slammed on the power and burst out of the ravine with a roar of drive noise: the wind didn't have time to take him up against the ravine wall, he was already up and ascending to safety.

"Subtle," Flight commented, not without amusement. 100 points blipped up at the bottom corner of the screen.

"You didn't mention points for subtlety, Flight Officer," Zyan said.

"There aren't."

"These points made _public_ , at all?"

"They are, why?"

"Oh, just curious."

\- o O o -

Zyan beat Janso's score by 11 points, a fact he was sure not to mention or point out at all that evening when someone else noticed that sled scores were displayed in the recruits common room, although he was secretly very glad they did notice, because he was about to inadvertantly happen across it and leave it on the screen.

It hadn't been an easy victory: Flight, it seemed, was serious about training for the worst.

The next few days, unfortunately, did not feature more sled practice, although Zyan took a skimmer out a few times, to look around the area a bit. He found Ballybran drab in places, dramatic in others – certainly it was more hostile than Djiel, but he felt he could grow to like the valleys, ridges and peaks. The recruits were evaluated in various ways, took trips to agricultural installations, were educated about a great many things and spent a lot of time chatting. Zyan was amazed to notice that, at some point, he had stopped his campaign of trying to be sociable and cheerful and was, in fact, just being sociable and cheerful. When he noticed this, he put his beer down suddenly and went pale. His heart started racing.

He hadn't had a group of friends for a long time. He couldn't remember the last time he'd just sat and chilled and talked rubbish and laughed with a group of mates. It was too easy for things like that to be taken away. The fellow students at college had been ripped away from him by the civil war. Friends and comrades he'd served with had been similarly parted from him, and then, in prison, he'd learned not to get too friendly with any of the other inmates, who often just weren't there the next day. The FSP hadn't been able to intervene on behalf of every single prisoner.

It was Aviczue that noticed. Police, he supposed. They noticed things.

"Hey, Zyan, come and show me that sled score you're totally not proud about again. While we're at it we can get a few more drinks for everyone." A few people laughed. She got up and gestured for him to follow. Zyan nodded and complied.

She took him away from the group, up to one of the screens, but didn't activate it.

"Want to talk about it?" She asked.

Zyan shook his head.

"That's fine. If you do, let me know. Anytime. Least I can do. I'm not going to pretend that being a cop on a civilised planet is in any way comparable to what you've been through, but you see a few things in that job and I know what it's like to lose a fellow officer. It stays with you but the person who had this same conversation with me told me it doesn't _define_ you. That helped me," Aviczue told him.

"Thanks, Aviczue," Zyan said. The feeling was passing. He didn't think he'd seen the last of it, but for now he was coping. "Shall we load up with drinks?"

Aviczue smiled.

They were ordering up for everyone when Abry surprised them by walking in, flanked by two medics.

"Is everyone okay?" Abry asked.

"Fine, thank you Mr. Abry sir," Tornaz said in a sing-song voice, to much laughter.

Abry smiled. "Very well. Apologies for the intrusion." He melted away, the medics following.

"I told you it was too early," Zyan heard him say to one of them, as they left.

"Odd," Avizcue remarked.

"Yeah," Zyan agreed.

\- o O o -

The reason for the unnannounced visit was pried out of Abry the next day by Pharisa, who had also thought it very strange.

"Okay, okay," Abry said, and paused the storm playback they were watching. "Usually we wouldn't touch on this for another couple of days, but you have a right to know. We have medisensors installed in these quarters."

This elicited expressions of mild outrage from some of the group. "I know, it borders on an invasion of privacy, but we have good reason for it. We're on day 7 of your time on the surface. Soon, you can expect to start feeling the physical effects of symbiosis with the spore. Not all of these effects are pleasant, so we monitor you. Last night those sensors picked up signs of slight medical distress from one of you, brought on, no doubt, by the intake of excess alcohol and nothing more worrisome than that. One of the duty medics thought it best to err on the side of caution and summoned me to the lounge. So, rest assured, we're looking out for you and when you do start to undergo your symbiosis highly trained specialists will be on hand to help."

There were some rote protests, but, on the whole, the group seemed grateful for this reassurance: they remembered the symptoms from Full Disclosure too well. It put a slight damper on the rest of the day, however. That evening, there was no extended convivial gathering in the lounge. Zyan retired early.

This was a good thing. That night, their first mach storm started whirling it's way toward the cube, driving singer's sleds before it.

\- o O o -

"Keep your helmet on at all times!" The Cargo Officer bellowed at them. She had the voice of a drill sergeant and judging by the cacophany in the hangar, that was an asset. "Even in here! If called to help with unloading, follow the hangar crewperson that grabs you and obey their orders! Crates are designed to be easy to carry but even inside the hangar the wind can play tricks, so carry ONE crate at a time and keep it CLOSE to your body! Keep your eyes OPEN! Head STRAIGHT to the sorting area and drop your crate off, then return HERE! Do NOT hang around in the way, or I will knock you on your behind myself! If anyone is injured, report it via comm and medics will come! Do NOT attempt to treat them yourself or move them unless so ordered!"

After this high-volume briefing, Zyan had expected them to swing into immediate action unloading the sleds. He was surprised when they did not. A series of seventeen sleds made landings, some of them fairly haphazard, but it appeared that the hangar crew were more than able to handle the influx without untrained assistance from the recruits.

The Cargo Officer arrived at the same conclusion after sled seventeen, and headed over.

"Okay, I think we're done here. One or two more are inbound, but I've got enough bodies to handle them. Thank you for being on hand to help – you get a bonus for showing up, so your time hasn't been wasted," she said, quieter, now that the baffles at the hangar doors were up.

"Does it get busier than this?" Pharisa asked.

The Cargo Officer shook her head. "Now, not so much. Back in the day, we'd have _dozens_ of sleds coming in at the very last minute. These days, well, there are fewer singers full stop. Out of the ones cutting, well, working practices have changed, let's say. They don't all cut until the very last moment any more – a good thing. Not my place to go into details with you: that's for Abry. Let's just say the new way is safer for everyone, and brings in more crystal per singer, more reliably. I hope you enjoyed the experience, anyway. Go get some sleep: tomorrow you'll be helping sort what we just unloaded, and since that's a much safer proposition and they want you to have experience handling crystal, you'll actually get to do something."

\- o O o -

The Sorter with which Zyan was paired shared the Cargo Officer's opinion of the changes, and he was also a lot less guarded about what he said. Zyan was picking up quite a lot about the guild that he suspected Abry would not have willingly told them: this made up, in part, for the irritating headache that started to make itself felt after an hour or so in the sorting area.

"Next crate, Zyan," the Sorter said. His name was Zadran ('a fellow Z-bloke! Not many of us around, you know!') and he talked. A _lot_. So far Zyan's role had been limited to fetching crates - he had not yet been allowed to touch any crystal.

"Now, where was I? Oh yes, back in the bad old days you'd go for _weeks_ doing next to nothing – a singer might occasionally come in in clear weather if he'd filled all his crates up, but not often. Then there'd be a storm and suddenly they'd _all_ come in at once, in a foul temper, usually, all clamouring to have their crystal sorted before the others. You could tell them that they'd get the same price whether they were sorted first or last until you were blue in the face but would they listen? Would they my foot: you'd have more luck getting the crystal to sort itself. We'd be backed up for _days_. Then, once we'd all done double and even triple shifts to catch up, it'd be over, and back to waiting. _Massively_ inefficient."

"What was that, Zad?" The Sorter at the next table asked. He was working with Pharisa, and claimed, Zadran said, to be slightly deaf: a side-effect of the spore, along with the altered vision that the best of the sorters all had in common.

"Nothing, Massi!" Zadran called over.

"Okay, sorry!"

"He does that all the time. You get to avoiding words beginning with M-A-S-S-I but one will slip out occasionally. Insists he doesn't need a hearing aid because 'it's not that bad yet'. Hah! Hasn't been 'that bad yet' for eighty years now, the old blighter. Still, ignore me, he's a good bloke and a good mate, we always have a good time with Massi-"

"About half past eleven, Zad!" Massi called over. "Get your wrist unit fixed!"

Zadran shook his head and smiled. "He does it on purpose, of course. Hears just fine when it suits him. Now, where was I? Oh yes, back to twiddling our thumbs. No regular hours to speak of at all. Right, tell you what, you unpack this one."

As soon as Zyan lifted the lid, he could feel the presence of crystal inside the crate. It was a lesser feeling than he'd experienced during Vander's black installation - as if the signal lacked power, or was just on slightly the wrong frequency. Still, it was enough to make him pause and blink.

"Feel it, do you?" Zadran asked, but didn't wait for an answer. "Good sign, that, if you ask me. I'm not medical, obviously, but I've yet to see a recruit with a sensitivity to crystal who I didn't see in here afterwards as a singer: arguing with me, usually, hah! Would've been better if you could feel it before you took the lid off, some do, you know, and-"

"What, like that crate?" Zyan interrupted, because what Zadran had said had suddenly made the reason for his headache very clear. It had a source: a battered crate in Massi's queue.

"Oh hello then," Zadran said. "Describe it."

"Up and down my back, in the base of my neck. Tingled, to begin with, now it's a headache," Zyan answered. "Felt it before, when Vander installed a black crystal on Djiel."

Zadran nodded and considered this for a moment.

"Massi!" He called, having apparently decided something. "Do you know what's in your queue, that crate there?"

It appeared Massi indeed had no problem hearing when he wanted to. He bent over and read the label on the side of the crate.

"It's Borton's," he replied. "He was coordinate-cutting on a possible black site. Old one, not a good prospect. I'm not holding my breath."

"Co-ordinate cutting?" Zyan queried.

"Haven't you covered this yet?" Zadran asked.

"Oh no, I must have not been paying attention again," Zyan lied. "Can you remind me?"

Zadran sighed. "The youth of today. Don't know you're born, some of you. Co-ordinate cutting is when a singer is sent out to the claim of an inactive singer. Medical have ways of extracting the information even from severely damaged minds. I was against it, but nobody asked my opinion and I have to admit it gets results," Zadran told him.

"Oh, yeah, _that_. Of course, thanks," Zyan replied.

"Was there a reason for this enquiry, Zad, or did you just think I looked like I needed a quick break?" Massi asked sarcastically. He was still waiting by the crate.

"Ten creds says there's black in there, Massi," Zadran called out.

Massi grinned. "Twenty says there isn't. Old Borton wasn't in the best of moods."

Zadran turned to Zyan. "How bad a headache is it?"

"Not thumping but really irritating," Zyan answered.

Zadran turned back to the other sorter and said: "You're on."

They went over to the crate, Pharisa joining them: a few other of the nearby sorters had also stopped work to watch, some calling out their own bets.

"Twenty credits Jarvis is wrong," a familiar voice said. Janso, to Tornaz.

"I'll be happy to take 20 creds off your hands, Marin," Tornaz replied crisply.

"Me too," Aviczue said.

"And me," Pharisa joined in.

"I, also," Hollin, this time. Zyan realised that everyone, in fact, was looking. Work had stopped along the entire sorting line.

"Okay, you two, what's the bet this time? And don't tell me you didn't hear the question, Mass." This from the Chief Sorter, a tall, blonde attractive woman who'd introduced herself as Clodine when they arrived earlier.

"This young recruit here reckons there's black in that crate: got the tingles and a headache. Massi says no," Zadran explained.

"You didn't mention the headache!" Massi protested.

Zadran grinned. "Didn't you hear?"

Massi shook his fist: everyone laughed, including Clodine.

"And how do you know it's black that's set Zyan off?" Clodine asked.

Massi grinned. "She's got you there, Zad."

"Because it's happened to him before," Zadran said primly.

"But when did he-? _Ohhh,_ " Clodine said, getting it. "The thing with Vander. Moment of truth, then. Open it up, Zyan," She nodded toward the crate in question.

"Yeah, and get a move on. I might actually get my total calculated sometime before Passover, then,"a new voice said.

Zyan pegged him as a singer as soon as he turned around to look. He was dressed in a well cut suit that looked expensive, but he had the otherness of the crystal singer, too.

Clodine smiled: the man's tone had been gruff but not aggressive. Zadran had already alluded to the traditional bantering between singers and sorters.

"Borton, hi," she said. "Would _you_ take a bet that there's black in there?"

"That I would. To the tune of...three thousand credits. Maybe three and a half," the singer replied. "I remembered the market rates."

There was a round of groans from those who had bet against, and a dark look from Janso. Zyan immediately felt ten times better about the headache.

"You remember more and more these days, Borton," Clodine told him, with a smile.

"Side benefit of dancing to Lars and Killa's tune, Clo: the credit is the main one, of course." The singer grinned, then turned to Massi. "Sorry about my attitude last night, Massi, I forgot to lock down the catering unit before I took off. Awful mess."

Massi glowered. "Sorry to the tune of twenty creds, maybe?"

Borton gave a bark of laughter. "Hah! Not that sorry. I'll buy you a drink at shift end. Now open up my fardling crate!"

Zyan placed the crate on Massi's table, and lifted the lid. Everyone with an excuse to follow did so.

Zadran placed a cautioning hand on his arm. "Whatever you find in there, don't hum, sing or make any tonal noise. Talking is fine-"

"And the whole guild knows he does enough of _that_ ," Massi interjected.

"Talking is _fine,_ " Zadran continued. "But never produce a recognisable note around raw crystal. It can cloud it badly."

"And I don't care what your reputation might be, Black Zyan, or how terrified Vander is of you – you bollix my crystal and you'll never sing another note," the singer growled.

"Alright, Borton, he's been duly cautioned," Clodine said. "Sort the crate, Zyan."

Zyan reached into the crate and pulled the first crystal from it's protective foam. The shock as he touched it almost made him cry out – it felt electric, almost alive, as if it was moving in his grip. It wasn't, though: the moment, and the illusion, passed.

The crystal wasn't black, but Zyan had already known that from data retrieval: they only turned black under certain circumstances. It looked, actually, rather drab. This shaft was about ten centimetres by five, and about as thick. It should've been an entirely quotidian lump of rock, but for some reason it exerted a strange fascination over him.

"How many in the set, recruit?" A new voice.

"Guildmaster." Several people made respectful greetings as the man appeared. Zyan barely looked up: his attention was on the crystal. It seemed to demand it.

Borton opened his mouth to answer, but the Guildmaster held up a hand to head him off.

"Four," Zyan answered hollowly, not sure how he knew. "This isn't the biggest, either."

"No more?"

Zyan shook his head. "No more."

"Sorry, Lars," Borton said. "I know you said you wanted a five shaft set for the Chalice order, but this is the best I could manage. Too much storm damage and too much flaw. Site must've been exposed for years. Damnable waste." He shook his head.

"This is still a valuable cut, Borton. Nobody could've cut better, I'm sure," the Guildmaster told him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Well done."

He looked again at Zyan, who was still gazing in wonder at the rock in his hands. "Looks like you're going to earn your nickname twice over."

Zyan made no response. By the time he blinked and put the shaft down on the sorting table, the Guildmaster had departed.

\- o O o -

They spent the remainder of that day sorting: the entire backlog was dealt with by early evening. It had not been a particularly big influx of sleds, and most of them had not filled all their crates with crystal. The recruits were dismissed back to their quarters with thanks.

There was, of course, a barrage of questions from the other recruits about his experience: only Janso seemed to have no curiosity to be satisfied. Funny, that. Zyan answered everyone as best he could until the group fractured as people went off to eat.

"Did any of your sorters mention co-ordinate cutting?" Zyan asked Tornaz, Pharisa, Aviczue and Hollin after everyone else had gone for food. Their sorters had not. Zyan shared what he'd been told.

"That's a bit gruesome," Tornaz curled his lip up in distaste. "They cannibalise damaged sleds for their parts and damaged people for their memories. I'm starting to think the Heptite Guild is more than a little bit ruthless."

Pharisa pulled a face. "Not necessarily the best choice of word, Tor love."

"Why not? Seems pretty ruthless to me."

"I'm not taking issue with 'ruthless', it's 'cannibalise' that gives me the heebs." Pharisa shivered.

"Hey, who's hungry?" It was Aviczue who spoke, then laughed.

"You're as bad as him," Pharisa told her. "You-"

She stopped speaking mid-sentence and her eyes widened. A moment later, the clatter of a tray and a shout for help came from where she was looking. Aviczue and Zyan turned to see.

One of the recruits was having convulsions on the floor. Her name was Q'tonisa, Zyan remembered, a habitat engineer by trade. Along with everyone else, he sprinted over, and also along with everyone else he was beaten to it by the medics, who quickly and efficiently administered something which stopped the girl's convulsions and then whisked her away on a zero-G stretcher.

"Please, everyone calm down," Abry, who had also appeared, enjoined them. "Such symptoms are not uncommon and our medical team are all experts in treating transition fever."

"One of us should go with her," Aviczue said.

"And that person would be in the way. Q'tonisa is receiving the very best possible care from highly trained professionals, but they need to be able to concentrate on their jobs. I promise you will all be kept updated as to her condition," Abry said.

"Will this happen to all of us?" Someone asked.

 _Of course it will, genius, we sat through a lecture on Shankill telling us it would_ , Zyan thought, a little uncharitably.

"The severity of the transition varies from individual to individual, but yes, you will all go through this - and there is a more than excellent chance you will all make satisfactory adaptions. If there wasn't, you would not have been allowed to come down to the surface," Abry answered.

"Is there any course of action an individual can undertake to increase their probability of a satisfactory adaptation?" Janso asked.

"Any number of studies have been carried out to try and identify the physical and-" Abry began, but Zyan cut him off.

"Lemme stop you there, Abry. Janso knows, he's probably read whatever information you let us have on this. What he means is what _you_ think. What have you heard? What do all the old hands agree is the way this really works, even if the doctors can't prove it?"

Abry paused a moment, opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I think we're on the verge of a breakthrough. Our esteemed mentor was about to go off-script there," Tornaz said, in grim rather than flippant tones.

Abry shot him a very human look of exasperation. "Okay, look, you didn't hear this from me, but... Some people think it's more about attitude than aptitude. The people that have the easiest transitions are the people who have an accommodating frame of mind. You have to _want_ it. If you fight it, it goes harder on you. If you accept it, it's easier."

Pharisa snorted. "So we're just supposed to _relax_? That's pseudoscience. Wishing for something doesn't make it happen."

Abry looked at her. "I was asked what guildmembers say. That's what they say."

"Hell with it, it can't hurt," Tornaz said. "Here symbiont, nice symbiont, come to Tornaz."

Abry left shortly thereafter. Some of the recruits gathered in an angry group, others didn't. They were all still hungry, though: the need to eat acted to diffuse the situation.

Zyan remembered his thoughts in the shuttle when it had landed and he'd taken a deep breath of air. Had he inadvertently hit upon the right attitude? Or - possibly more likely - was there nothing to do except wait and see what happened?

Well, Tornaz was right that it couldn't hurt. Zyan took a deep breath, then applied himself to his food.

\- o O o -

When the recruits assembled for breakfast the next day, they were three short: Hollin, Pharisa & Tornaz had fallen ill in the night and been spirited away to the infirmary. It was a small mercy, Zyan thought, that the pair had sickened at the same time: they didn't have to worry about each other. Colina, on the other hand, evinced a great deal of concern for Hollin: although they had not long met the pair had already developed an affection. Aviczue sat with her, pointing out the status report from the infirmary - everyone was 'satisfactory'.

Abry spent a while calming frayed nerves when he arrived, then informed them that they would be spending the day with a maintenance crew inspecting the comms equipment on the roof of the guild cube for damage. What this actually amounted to was scrubbing gritty dust out of all the finickety parts, and there was a _lot_ of finickety parts to be scrubbed. To add insult to injury, it began to rain just after lunch. When Colina and one of the other recruits succumbed to transition sickness and were taken away, Zyan almost envied them their escape from the unrewarding toil in the cold and wet.

The remaining recruits gathered in the lounge for dinner, feeling as if they were under siege. In a way, Zyan supposed, they were - a strange version where the besieging force had been invited within the walls from the onset of hostilities.

Usually the group spilt naturally into three or four tables. Tonight, they all stayed together around one table, even Janso, who had increasingly been holding himself apart. They were a grim group. Even Aviczue, who was normally a gregarious sort, was mostly silent.

The next morning, she too was gone. By the end of the day (once again spent scrubbing away outside) only Janso, Zyan and two others – Rhanui and another girl, whose name he couldn't recall - were left.

The tense, silent meal was repeated. Zyan dialled for a stiff double of spirits and they checked all the medical statuses (everyone was satisfactory). He wondered why he had so far stayed off that list, and abruptly wanted to be alone.

"Night," he said, and went to his room.

 _I thought we had a deal, guys_ , he said to the spore. His only response was a sneeze: small wonder, after two days out in miserable weather.

"Aimed for miracle alien spore, missed, caught a cold. Story of my life," Zyan snorted in grim laughter. The common cold: humanity could span the stars and tame alien planets, but they'd taken their minor, annoying infections with them.

The medical sensors clearly didn't rate a sneeze as deserving of a response, since Zyan sneezed twice more before climbing into bed feeling worn out, thoroughly annoyed and oddly guilty that he wasn't suffering in the infirmary like everyone else. He pulled the covers over his head and wished for symbiosis to start then and there: once again the only answer he received was a series of sneezes, with nary a murmur from any medical sensors.

"Fine. Have it your way: but I better be feeling like death warmed up come morning," Zyan grumbled.

He was disappointed again: the next morning he felt better than he could ever remember feeling in his entire life.

\- o O o -

Zyan didn't start his day thinking he had superpowers: he assumed he was in the early stages of transition fever, or, more likely, that his cold had got worse. The waking chimes sounded blaringly loud, his covers felt scratchy and coarse, and the ambient lighting in his room a few notches too high for comfort.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm up," he grumbled. The computer stopped the chimes: the light was still too bright, even after a few moments of blinking wakefulness. "Sheesh: a bit darker in here, please? Did someone change the lightbulbs for a stupidly bright model while I was asleep?"

The computer obligingly lowered the brightness.

"Bit more."

It went rather dim. Zyan could see perfectly well.

"How about just short of 'completely off'?" Zyan asked, a suspicion forming in his mind.

The computer obliged. He moved his hand around. He could see it: and the room, too, with reasonable clarity.

"Hunh," Zyan said to himself.

He dressed in his usual clothes, which also seemed rougher than usual, and went out in search of breakfast. What he found was Janso, who had ordered eighteen different types of breakfast and six cups of coffee, and was trying each of them in turn.

Zyan stared at him for a moment. Janso did not look up from his bizarre gastronomic experiment.

"Janso," Zyan said.

Janso looked up. "Jarvis. What do you want?" His voice seemed too loud.

"What's with all this?" He indicated the food with a sweep of his hand.

Janso glared at him. "I am conducting an experiment, if you must know."

"What are you, stress-testing your stomach or something?" Zyan snorted, then dialled a coffee for himself and sipped it before spitting it out. It was incredibly strong in flavour. "Fardles! What's wrong with the machine?"

Janso looked up with interest rather than annoyance, for the first time. "The catering units are operating within normal parameters," Janso informed him. "It is we who have changed."

"Nah," Zyan took another hesitant sip. The taste was still strong and it seemed very hot, but it didn't shock him this time. In fact 'strong', was the wrong term: it was a complex taste, now, with more individual layers of sensation than he thought possible for a humble cup of java. "Whoa."

"Indeed," Janso said.

The cup, too, felt different. The catering units usually dispensed workaday bioplas cups which could be easily washed until they needed to be recycled: they should feel glossy and smooth. This one felt oddly papery. Zyan peered at it: he could make out the patina of tiny scratches that covered it, each one stained slightly brown. He sniffed the coffee: a barrage of olfactory information buffeted his nose.

Then he held his hand over the dispensing slot and poured the hot coffee over it. If Janso was shocked, he didn't show it. Zyan _was_ , but not for the reason he expected. It was painful, yes, if you stopped and thought about it you could definitely call it that: but the pain was just another sensation alongside the heat of the coffee, the silky feel of the liquid and the tiny impacts of a few loose coffee granules as they bounced off his skin.

He rinsed his hand off at the little sink next to the slot. More silkiness, icy coldness. His hand was red where the hot liquid had scalded his skin: as he watched, it faded to his usual skin tone.

Zyan put the cup down and walked purposefully over to an information unit: as he did so he realised he felt very different. The simple act of moving around felt good: he felt graceful, strong, completely in control of his body. He turned the walk into a forward flip with a laugh, but underestimated his strength, sending himself too high: he recovered easily, landing lightly on his feet. He laughed again.

"Okay so, _this_ is pretty awesome." He backflipped away from the terminal with a whoop.

"Will you cease this ridiculous behaviour!" Janso snapped.

"Lighten up, man, if the same thing's happened to you as has happened to me then it's _amazing_. Enjoy it," Zyan retorted.

Janso glowered at him. "That would be undignified."

"Fine, spoilsport: I'm going for a run," Zyan said, with a grin.

"You have not shown a predilection towards physical exercise so far," Janso stated.

"I keep in shape. I do push ups and crunches in my room."

"I have not observed you running," Janso said.

"Have you got me under surveillance?"

"A morning run is part of my daily exercise routine. I have not seen you do the same."

"Ah, yeah, sorry, maybe nobody told you. I do the fun route for people without a stick up their behind. Not the same as your route. No wonder you haven't seen me," Zyan grinned. He'd never been a fan of recreational substances but he'd bet good money this is what the good stuff felt like. Mind you, he could just be enjoying winding Janso up.

"Your behaviour is erratic and worrisome," Janso accused him.

"I'm only mucking about."

"You poured boiling water over your own hand," Janso said.

"It was hardly boiling, Janso," Zyan replied airily. "Anyway: run. Bye."

"I'm calling Instructor Abry. You are mentally unstable," Janso said.

"Fine, whatever," Zyan said, then stopped. "Where's Rhanui and what's-her-name?"

"Finally: a thought for someone other than yourself," Janso growled.

Zyan ignored him and addressed the computer. "Computer: where's everyone else."

"Recruit Janso is in the Recruit's Lounge. All other recruits have been admitted to the Infirmary," the computer replied.

Zyan swore. "Status?"

"All recruits are satisfactory," the computer answered unhelpfully.

"And then there were two," Zyan said, and blew air out of his lips. "Or one plus a robot that escaped from a military laboratory, anyway."

Janso glowered at him. "You are not yourself, and so I will ascribe that remark to your current mental instability. I recommend that we dispense with this pointless persiflage and present ourselves at the Infirmary," the man said.

"You could've just said 'stop being an idiot, Zyan, let's go and see if everyone's okay' you know," Zyan replied.

"That would require a level of familiarity with you I neither have nor desire," Janso said coldly.

Zyan rolled his eyes. He did want to know if everyone was okay. Abry's insistence that they would just be in the way if they visited the infirmary hadn't sat well with him. However, the last thing he wanted to do was go to sickbay to get poked and prodded. He wanted to run, to jump, to get into an airsled and fly it very fast along a canyon. He wanted to order about fifty shots of something strong and dance wildly. About ten percent of him wanted to hit Janso really hard.

Zyan cut his thoughts off. _Think rationally_ , he ordered himself. Janso was right: he wasn't behaving normally.

"You're right,"he told Janso. "Sorry. I am not entirely rational right now."

Janso looked startled. "An apology, Jarvis? You're _definitely_ psychologically impaired."

"Alright, Captain Sensible, don't push it. Let's get down to Medical before I change my mind," Zyan retorted.

\- o O o -

Janso insisted on informing Abry that they were 'experiencing atypical sensorial input and therefore reporting to the Infirmary for evaluation'. Zyan suppressed the urge to giggle. This message precipitated an invasion of the recruits' lounge by four medics and two stretchers. Even Janso refused to lay down on one to be floated to the sickbay. Zyan told his duo of medics he'd get on the stretcher if he was allowed to use a couple of fire extinguishers to turn it into a makeshift hoverjet. They told him he could walk. Zyan replied that there were two stretchers which opened up the intriguing possibility of a hoverjet _race_.

"You can walk or I'm sedating you," one of them told him. Zyan pouted but walked.

There was a dedicated lift connecting the recruit quarters and Medical, the better, Zyan supposed, to facilitate the quick transferral of stricken initiates: it certainly explained how quickly the medics had been turning up. Despite the brevity of the journey, Zyan found his euphoria was blunted somewhat by the businesslike attitude of the medics and the workaday blandness of the lift. He wanted to run, jump, climb into a skimmer, rig the engine to 130% and fly round the guild cube as fast as possible.

It was further blunted by the sight of the apparatus that awaited him in the examination room the medics escorted him to: the standard medical testing gear, with it's standard nasty pain test, no doubt.

"Well, my morning had to start looking down at some point, I suppose," he muttered to himself.

"Good morning, Guildmember Jarvis,"a bright, pleasant voice greeted him. It belonged to a bright, pleasant woman in a lab coat who entered after a moment. "I'm Doctor Fiske-Ulass, Head of Medical Research, but you can call me Donalla. Presnol - he's the Chief Medical Officer - sends his apologies. He likes to attend upon all recruits who come in with transition symptoms, but, well, two of you have come in at once and everyone else is dealing with your friends, all of whom are doing well, by the way," the woman said, forestalling his enquiry. "Right, Zyan, let's have a look at you, shall we? Onto the bed, please. Oh, sorry, may I call you Zyan?"

"Sure," Zyan got gingerly up onto the scanner.

"Excellent. We tend to be an informal bunch here, as you'll soon discover," Donalla smiled.

The medical equipment did it's thing, minus the final pain jolt, which was replaced by a mild tingling instead. Some other type of scan, Zyan assumed.

"Oh, cool: I hate the pain threshold test thing," Zyan confessed.

"That _was_ the pain threshold test," Donalla said, sounding slightly puzzled.

"Well, thanks for turning it down," Zyan told her.

Donalla bit her bottom lip before replying. "Well, that's the thing. I didn't. I turned it _up_."


	10. Chapter 10

"You have had what is usually referred to as a Milekey transition," the Chief Medical Officer informed Zyan an hour or so later. "Only..." The man's eyes dipped toward the medical screens again.

"Yes…?" Zyan hinted from his perch on the edge of the medical bed. The man seemed likely to leave that ominous 'only' hanging for a good long while, and he had not been given any details of his condition. Zyan's euphoria was completely gone, and the confused, puzzled manner exhibited by the Heptite Guild's senior medic since he had turned up was now bidding fair towards making Zyan think that something was deeply wrong.

"Oh honestly, Presnol," Donalla shook her head. "Please remember the patient, at this point, has no information about his prognosis. He doesn't know what a Milekey Transition _is_. Basic information first."

"What?" Presnol looked up.

Donalla sighed and turned back to Zyan with a smile. "The first thing you should know, Zyan, is that you are medically fine. You're not going to suffer from transition sickness."

Zyan breathed out, relieved. "Thanks, Doc. It was all looking a bit uncertain there."

Presnol finally twigged and started to bluster, although in a very affable fashion. "Oh! Of course, yes, _obviously_ you're fine, no cause for concern, life and limb very safe and whatnot. You've had what is normally called a Milekey Transition. Only, well, how can I put this..." And once again Presnol scrutinised the results with a frown.

"Am I caught in a time loop?" Zyan asked.

"You'd be forgiven for assuming so, certainly," Donalla said, favouring Presnol with a frown of her own. Zyan wasn't the best judge of relationships but he wouldn't be completely surprised if there were Words between these two later, and not in an entirely professional context. "What my esteemed colleague should be going on to say is this: you've had a Milekey Transition, so named for our first Guildmaster who first experienced it. There are few or none of the symptoms we almost always see during transition, and the degree of adaptation is invariably very high – sometimes this can be disorienting for the subject."

"It certainly was for _this_ subject," Zyan confirmed. "Is, I mean."

"I'm not in the least bit surprised. The augmentation to the senses in and of itself can be daunting: don't worry, the brain learns to process all the extra information quicker than you'd expect – before long you won't even be consciously aware of it. In your case, however – well, you seem to be an exceptionally good host."

"Well I do try to do my best for guests," Zyan quipped.

Donalla smiled politely, and continued. "We're seeing very significant improvements to muscle density, your nervous system, tissue regeneration, some other systems. A more than excellent adaptation, but not completely unprecedented. However - and this is what's got Pres in a tizzy – you appear to have a very, very high pain threshold."

"These are all good things, right?" Zyan queried.

"Yes – but bodies feel pain for a reason: it means they're doing something they shouldn't," Donalla clarified. "You told me that the pain threshold test just felt like a tingle?"

"Yeah, it was irritating more than anything else," Zyan answered.

"We'd expect to see that for the lower settings, but certainly not for the maximum setting. I'll be frank, Zyan: we've never _used_ the maximum setting before. Normally the neural sensors-" Donalla tapped the hood which had covered Zyan's head "-will see your pain receptors starting to exhibit activity around the 40% mark: that's a normal human baseline. When you tested on Shankill it was 45% - an average result. For a person who makes a good adaptation to the Ballybran symbiote it's more like 60 to 70%. You hit 100% and didn't even blink."

"Again: good thing, no?" Zyan was perplexed.

"Not necessarily. At 100% your brain was still saying 'there's a sensation you should probably look into at some point' rather than 'extreme pain: get out of there now'," Donalla told him.

"Ah."

"It's something to watch: new recruits are all checked regularly, so we'll keep an eye on it. In the meantime, be careful. Your brain will probably learn to interpret pain signals in the same way it will learn to deal with your augmented senses, but just because you _can_ do something doesn't mean you _should,_ " Donalla said, slightly sternly as he had confessed to his earlier experiment with the hot coffee.

"It's like flying a new craft which is way more powerful than your usual kit, then: it might be top-grade stuff but don't get carried away until you know what it can and can't do," Zyan ventured an analogy.

"That seems sensible," Donalla told him. "I'm also going to give you another warning. The singers probably won't be too enamoured of me for what they will inevitably see as trespassing on their trade secrets, but I have a responsibility to keep you safe and they don't always provide new singers with all the knowledge they _should_ do, Lars' reforms notwithstanding." Donalla's open, attractive face turned momentarily dark with anger.

"There's a marked tendency for singers who have had a Milekey transition to go into what they call _thrall_ when they're handling crystal, especially the darker shades and most especially black," she went on. "It makes them unable to put a crystal down – they become completely entranced by it. I've seen it myself and it's very hard to break them out of it. Your record already has more than a few notes in it which lead me to believe you're going to be sensitive to black, which will make you a very valuable cutter. It can also mean you're extremely vulnerable to thrall. My advice to you is this: do _not_ cut alone. Always cut with a partner. Make sure they understand how to break thrall. _In extremis_ , they should be physically capable of tearing the crystal out of your hands and hauling you into a sled. I am not joking or exaggerating. Guildmaster Dahl is actually considering making it a guild statute that singers vulnerable to thrall _have_ to take someone into the ranges with them, even if that person is not a singer but is only there to see to the singer's safety: a related but equally serious issue is that singers sometimes refuse to stop cutting, even with a storm bearing down upon them."

"Whoa," Zyan said.

"Hang on, Donalla, if Lars knows you're handing out singer secrets-" Presnol tuned into the conversation somewhat belatedly.

"Then he would agree with me 100%, and you know it – this ridiculous paranoia and secrecy has to stop. Besides, Zyan is going to _be_ a crystal singer. These are _his_ 'secrets' now."

Presnol harrumphed. "Not all singers would agree with you. I don't want to have to deal with more complaints from-"

"From crystal-mazed dinosaurs too hidebound to take proper safety precautions and too paranoid to accept that not _everyone_ is out to steal their claims? The ones still operating on guild regs which are centuries old because they can't memorise any changes?" Donalla interrupted, with some asperity.

"No: _those_ singers don't come down here unless they're stretchered in. You know very well who I'm referring to," Presnol said.

"Oh, of course, the ones who know full well that things are changing but are determined to drag us kicking and screaming back into the past! Well, _they_ can camp on the Guildmaster's doorstep, then. I'm not about to allow the prejudices of a group of reactionaries – or their jealousy of their status - to dictate what information is appropriate in a doctor-patient situation," Donalla fired back.

"Um, do you two need a little privacy?" Zyan asked.

Both doctors stopped and looked at him. Donalla smiled. "Sorry. Every organisation has it's ongoing spats: singers and medics can be as bad as singers and sorters, sometimes. I'll send you the notes I keep on singer physiology and the medical effects of cutting crystal – don't worry, they're legible to non-medics. Read them if you get a chance."

Zyan had filed all this away for future consideration. Outwardly, he smiled. "Thanks. Of course. Consider your warnings taken to heart. If you don't mind me asking, how is everyone else in my class?"

"I can't divulge confidential medical information, I'm afraid. The-" Presnol began.

Donalla thumped Presnol on the arm lightly. "He's asking if his friends are okay, Doctor Pompous, not for access to their medical records. Seriously, _I'm_ supposed to be the pure research boffin and you're supposed to be the one with the good bedside manner."

She turned to Zyan and smiled encouragingly. "They're all satisfactory: I know you'll have heard that entirely too often but cases do differ dramatically. With the exception of Marin K'tar Janso, who has also been lucky enough to have a Milekey transition as I'm certain you've already surmised, they're suffering from varying degrees of transition fever: two of them very mild, none of them dangerous. The question now is not if they'll survive but how long they'll be here and how well they will have adapted to the spore at the end of their convalescences. We'll make sure to let you know when you can visit them."

"Thanks Doc," Zyan said. "I'd appreciate that. Can you let them know what happened to us when they wake up?"

"No problem, and please call me Donalla and him Presnol," Donalla said.

"Presnol would be much preferable to 'doc'," Presnol added, but with a smile – the first hint of humour Zyan had seen from him. "We're going to be acquaintances for the next several centuries, after all."

"Centuries," Zyan said. "Blimey."

"Get used to thinking in those terms," Donalla advised.

"If you don't mind me asking..." Zyan ventured.

"A lady's age is her own business," Donalla said primly, then grinned wickedly and pointed her thumb at Presnol. " _He's_ eighty seven."

Presnol sighed. " _My_ age is apparently everyone's business."

Zyan recognised that this was probably their usual routine to put newcomers at their ease, and played dutifully along. "You don't look a day older than eighty six."

"Thanks," Presnol answered. In truth, he didn't look any older than his mid-thirties. "Well, like Donalla says, you'll be back in for a check-up soon. In the meantime, I see no reason why Janso and yourself should not be discharged to continue your training. Someone will be down soon to collect you."

"Abry?"

Presnol shook his head. "Abry's job is over. You're a crystal singer, now – or very nearly, anyway. Very best of luck, Zyan."

Donalla echoed these sentiments, and then they both took their leave. Zyan was left alone with the medical equipment.

"Both had a Milekey, huh? Well ain't you two a pair of lucky sons of shards," The crystal singer said. Janso and Zyan had been summoned to the infirmary's reception area to meet him.

The singer was a tall, hawk-faced man with a blond buzz-cut and a fading tan. He had an accent that Zyan didn't recognise (although that accounted for most accents, since Zyan had never left Djiel until recently) and had one leg in a powered assist device which clicked and hummed as he walked. In each hand he held a metal bracelet.

"Marin K'tar Janso?" The singer asked, reading the name off the bracelet in his left hand.

"Sir," Janso replied, once again only partially succeeding in not coming to attention.

"Sir? Hah! Here." He threw the bracelet to Janso, who caught it. "And Zyan Ezekiel Jarvis."

"Morning," Zyan said, as he caught his own bracelet.

"Mornin'," the singer replied with a nod. "You're gonna need to keep those on until you've been out in the ranges, so people here will know you're singers and you can get in your own front door. I'm Einar Danelaw, but mostly people call me Dane. You've met my better half already, by the way."

"I presume you are referring to CS Jolinda?" Janso asked.

"Sorry about those fifty creds," Zyan said.

Dane raised an eyebrow. "Someone's been payin' attention. Yep, you lost me a bet with Jo when you all took the plunge. Pay me back by keepin' on payin' attention while I get you trained up," he smiled. It immediately softened his features, which were somewhat fierce when not leavened with humour.

"Yes sir," Janso confirmed.

"First order of business, Marin, enough with the 'sir' already," Dane said with another raised eyebrow.

"Yes s-, as you wish, CS Danelaw." Janso replied.

"Your buddy here always like this?" Dane asked Zyan, clearly somewhat put off by what he seemed to consider cold formailty.

Zyan surprised himself by aborting the reply of _'oh, you have no idea'_ before it got as far as his mouth. It was time for him to stop this thing with Janso, even if Janso didn't reciprocate. He arranged a smile, instead, and assayed a bit of minor social engineering: "Marin's very formal, but he doesn't mean anything by it. He was in the Navy, it's like hardwired in at this point. Give it a century and he'll maybe call someone by their first name."

Dane laughed. "Fair enough, Marin. Habit of a lifetime, an' all. Anyways, the same accident that messed up Jo's arm messed up my leg-" he tapped the offending limb, in it's metal scaffolding "-only, her bein' way luckier than yours truly as usual, she's all healed up but I still got a ways to go. Long enough to get a start in on your singer training. So, follow me."

Dane led them, metal leg clanking, out of the infirmary and towards the lifts. "Now, it says in the manual that came with this gig that day one starts with me showing you round the parts of the guild cube reserved for singers and seeing you settled into your new apartments. Now I don't know _exactly_ when that was written but I'm willin' to bet it wasn't anytime recently, and I'm a darn sight more sure about that than I was my last bet. Point one, ain't nobody cares which parts of the guild are reserved for singers, anymore, 'cept maybe a few folk with their noses stuck in the air and it wasn't ever written down official-like anyway, so I say shards to that. You know where everything's at: if you fancy spending time in a too-big room with nobody in it but the noses in the air crew, ask me, and I'll show you the singer's common room. As for seeing you settled in, you both look like grown-ups to me: your accomodation numbers are written on your bracelets and if you can't find them on your own you don't got any business cuttin' crystal, if you ask me, so shards to that, aswell."

Zyan laughed – and privately wondered if Dane's 'noses in the air crew' and Donalla's group of reactionaries were one and the same. Janso frowned: he probably had a lot of respect for manuals. During Dane's lecture the lift arrived – they all got in.

"Lift: cutter workshop," Dane said. The lift swished shut and started moving. "So, we're left with what _I_ think we should be doin', which is also gonna dovetail nice-like with what the _Guildmaster_ wants you doin', which is learnin' what you need to know to get out there and cut crystal just as soon as you can. _War and Peace_ ain't got nothin' on the Heptite Guild back-orders list, trust me."

Janso and Zyan both frowned at that reference. " _War and Peace_?"

"Never heard of it?" Dane asked. They both shook their heads.

"S'a book. Famous one, or anyways is where I'm from," Dane explained.

"Where's that?" Zyan asked.

"Earth," Dane replied. "You've heard of _Earth_ , right?"

"It is usually referred to as Terra, but yes," Janso replied.

Dane shook his head. "You colonials and your ways. Had a perfectly good name before anyone ever launched themselves off of it to go find a new place. Point is, it's a very long book, it's like your seminal example of a really long book. With me?"

"Reckon so," Zyan replied. He already found himself quite liking the singer, with his easy drawl and no-nonsense nature.

"Peachy. Anyway, first order of business is to get you two fitted for cutters. Ain't no way that'll get done before the morning's done with, but after chow I reckon some sled simulation, unless you'd prefer to start on the rules and regs. Lucky you, the set you gotta learn's a bit shorter than the one _I_ had to memorise – the Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer went through them last year and chopped out a bunch of stuff nobody needs to know anymore," Dane told them.

"Which crystal singer?" Janso asked.

" _The_ Crystal Singer. Killashandra Ree, _don't_ call her the Assistant Guildmaster unless you got a death wish, but basically her word is law hereabouts unless the Guildmaster disagrees, which he never will 'cos he ain't stupid and anyway they've been together so long they already know what the other one's goin' to say before they've said it. She says jump to you at any point, you say 'how high CS Ree and what direction would you prefer, ma'am?' You'll catch on," Dane said.

The lift arrived at it's destination and the doors opened. "Well, here we are. Clarend! You in, man?"

The cutter workshop, or at least the part singers had access to, was just a small waiting room with a counter and a couple of doors. Clarend turned out to be the Cutter Technician (an unassuming job title for the head of one of the most important departments in the Guild, Zyan was to discover later) who greeted Dane with a smile. Two assistants were summoned, and Zyan and Janso were ushered through the aforementioned doors and fitted for cutters.

This process turned out to be surprisingly complicated. As well as having his hands meticulously measured, Zyan was also put through his vocal paces, the output of which was calibrated. He was hoarse by the end of it, and Dane had been right – it had taken all morning.

The man himself had disappeared off somewhere else by the time Zyan was finished. Janso emerged from his room just a few moments later.

Zyan looked at Janso. Janso looked at Zyan.

Zyan spoke first. "Look, man, this isn't Shankill or even orientation anymore. We've got like decades of trying to avoid each other ahead of us unless we bury the hatchet. Now I know you-"

Janso cut him off, which Zyan had expected, but not to tell him to shut up or go away, which he hadn't.

"Why did you intervene on my behalf with CS Danelaw?" Janso asked.

"Because he thought you were giving him the cold shoulder, but I knew you weren't. Seemed unfair and it was kind of an important first impression," Zyan explained.

Janso nodded. "You did not have to do that."

Zyan shrugged. "Seemed like the right thing to do."

Janso nodded again, jerkily. "Thank you."

Zyan was amazed. "Any time," he replied.

"You are correct: further antagonism between us would be of no benefit to anyone, Jarvis," Janso said. "Let us declare a truce and attempt to cultivate a friendly and mutually beneficial rivalry as we strive to become crystal singers."

The man stuck out his hand. Zyan stared at it.

"Is this not the accepted protocol for an agreement between peers?" Janso asked.

"Yeah, it is, I'm just surprised to see _you_ offering your hand to me to shake." Zyan shook his hand. "Deal. Since we're bosom buddies now, Janso, what is it with you? Why all the formality? You sound like you're making a speech half the time."

Janso looked uncomfortable. "It was the way of my people to be direct and plain in their speech and manner. Intimation, subtlety of speech – these things were considered fundamentally dishonest and discouraged. This has made things difficult for me, once I left my home and started to make my own way in the galaxy. Being in the Fleet was good for me, as there are accepted protocols that all servicemen and women follow in their interactions. They are well understood and thus this allowed me to interact easily with my comrades."

"Why leave, then?" Zyan asked.

Janso looked down. "I was posted to Barnard's Star during the initial aftermath of the Djielese crisis. My duties involved refugee liaison, but..."

"You couldn't talk to them easily," Zyan guessed. He could also guess, now, why Janso had taken an initial dislike to him.

Janso shook his head. "No. So many people, all in need, all of them looking at me like I was a construct rather than a human being, because I could not-." He broke off. "I cannot find the words to describe it. I am ashamed to say it was too much for me. I requested a transfer but my commanding officer denied my request. He offered me an honourable discharge instead, as my initial term of service had passed. I was strongly advised to take it. I was told I was making my comrades...uncomfortable."

Zyan felt an upsurge of sympathy for Janso. He'd had what sounded like a really strange upbringing. Zyan was no psychologist but he knew that some people had a hard time with social interaction: the rules and clues and myriad signals humans sent to each other were a hard puzzle for them to solve. He could see why the man liked Aviczue's company. She was open, honest and straightforward – easier for him to talk to, perhaps.

"Sounds like you were just making _him_ uncomfortable, to me," Zyan said.

"Perhaps. I must also offer you an apology for my initial treatment of you. I saw much suffering on Barnard's Star. Others in my unit blamed it on 'idiot revolutionaries' and I took this appraisal at face value. More information about the conditions pertaining in the Djiel system has since become available, but I did not study it as I should have. I have now corrected this oversight and come to the conclusion that the duty of any FSP citizen in the face of such oppression should be resistance." Janso went slightly red in the face as he made this admission.

Zyan smiled. "Apology accepted, man. I'm sorry I nearly lamped you one."

There was a click and a whirr from behind them. "You're gonna bring a tear to this old man's eyes, boys," Dane said, stumping towards them. "Seriously, I'm mistin'up."

"I do not understand why this conversation has provoked an emotional reaction in you, CS Danelaw," Janso said.

Dane looked puzzled and opened his mouth, but Zyan shot him a 'let-me-handle-this' look and held up a hand.

"It's okay, man." Zyan turned to Janso and explained. "Dane has arrived during an emotional conversation between two people that the situation requires he interrupt. He is not really emotionally affected but making a humourous comment. This allows us to smile or even politely laugh in response, thus smoothing over what might otherwise be an awkward moment."

"This is precisely the sort of thing that I do not instinctively understand," Janso admitted. "Thank you for your consideration, CS Danelaw. Haha," he said, with a somewhat strained smile.

"Seriously?" Dane asked Zyan.

"Yeah, I think, yes – seriously," Zyan answered. "Janso, if this is how you are, then you've got to _own_ it. Don't look at it like it's something you can't do – make it work for you."

Dane – who seemed to be a good sort - arranged a grin and slapped Janso on the back. "Janso, you ain't even in the running for the weirdest person on this rock anyways, believe you me. Come on boys. Let's get something to eat and then we'll hit the sled sims."


	11. Chapter 11

The Heptite Guild might not have been a military organisation, but they certainly expected their new recruits to train very hard.

To begin with, mornings consisted of learning - off by heart - the Rules and Regs that covered the rights and responsibilities of crystal singers. Despite Dane's repeated assertions that they were getting off lightly compared to the educational burden imposed on previous singer cohorts, there was certainly a lot to learn.

Zyan hated this with a low-grade, grizzling passion.

"Why can't we just look this stuff up when we need to?" Zyan asked Dane on the third morning.

"'Cos it's gotta be second nature. This stuff needs to be embedded so deep you don't even know you know it. Make no mistake, singin' crystal is murder on your memory. Even if you cut in sensible short shifts and come in out of the ranges at regular intervals you can find yourself forgetting things - little things like your own name or where you come from. Ain't always time to thumb through the user manual in the middle of the ranges," Dane explained, and that was that.

Janso hoovered it up: he had the right kind of brain for learning things quickly and recalling it with ease when required. Dane insisted he went through the same repetitions as Zyan had to anyway. Far from objecting on the grounds that he'd learnt it all adequately already, Janso readily agreed.

"Multiple iterations are an effective way of moving information into the long-term storage areas of the brain. CS Danelaw is correct. You should apply yourself to this with greater rigour, Jarvis," he informed Zyan in a lectorial manner.

Dane laughed. "Knew I was gonna like you the first time I saw you, Janso."

Zyan sighed, and read on.

Afternoons were given over to sled practice. At first Zyan loved it: he was naturally good at it, after all. The endless drill of landing, taking off, landing and taking off soon grew to be tiresome, though. Only the challenge of matching or beating Janso's score kept him going, so Zyan supposed there might've been something to the guy's 'productive rivalry' theory after all.

After sled practice on the third day, when Zyan dragged himself back to his echoingly overlarge quarters, he found a couple of messages waiting for him. The first was from Clarend: his sonic cutter was ready for collection. The second was from Donalla: some of his friends were awake and well enough to receive visitors.

Janso didn't answer when Zyan commed him, so he assumed he'd already headed down to Medical. Zyan splashed some water on his face and followed him.

It turned out to be Tornaz and Aviczue who were no longer comatose. Zyan saw Tornaz first.

"You look disgustingly healthy. Stop it this instant," Tornaz said, as Zyan entered his room.

Zyan grinned. "Sorry: got lucky. Nothing personal. How are you?"

"Awful, and aware exactly how awful in amazing never-before-experienced detail from every sense except smell, which has somehow escaped improvement in my case. The doctors tell me that now Sammy Symbiont has properly bedded in I'll be out of here by the end of the day, but right now I don't believe it," Tornaz said, somewhat sourly.

"Want to bet?"

"Against Captain Lucky? No thanks," Tornaz snorted.

"They told you how Pharisa is?" Zyan asked.

"Only that she's out of danger and has made a satisfactory adaptation - everyone has. They nearly opened champagne on the spot," Tornaz related.

"Well, I guess if none of your patients die that's a big win for medics," Zyan said.

"Yup," Tornaz said. "So, you killed Janso yet, or do you get to avoid him now?"

"Actually we're okay now. I'm not saying we've become best friends forever overnight but, well, he's not such a bad guy," Zyan said.

"Shard it, the doctors got it wrong. My hearing must've been badly affected 'cos I could swear you just said you're getting along with Janso," Tornaz said, then faked a dramatic gasp.

"Well, the terrible medical ordeal we went through gave us a sense of perspective, and our dispute just didn't seem as important any more," Zyan shrugged. "Seriously, I _sneezed_. Several times."

Tornaz called him something very impolite. Zyan laughed.

\- o O o -

Zyan had to pause on his way into Aviczue's room. Janso was already in there, with flowers. Zyan wondered where he had managed to find them.

"You never said anything," Aviczue was saying.

"I have problems finding the correct words and manner to express my emotions," Janso told her. "Previously this caused me to leave things unsaid, but recent experience has convinced me to simply speak my mind instead. I suspect the spore may have brought this about. At any rate: I am delighted to find you recovered. I would have been distraught had you been otherwise. I must admit to an admiration of your person and character that goes beyond the simple respect and friendship you command from any individual, and I hope these feelings may be reciprocated."

There was a moment of silence, then: "Do you know how rare it is to find a man who is actually open about how he is feeling?"

"I am afraid I have no hard data or even anecdotal evidence on that," Janso answered.

"Oh, you'll do just fine," Aviczue told him, and laughed.

Zyan coughed delicately from the doorway. "I would say 'get a room' but you're already in one and I'm just intruding anyway."

"Yeah, you might almost say you could've come back another time," Aviczue answered tartly.

"Wait," Janso said. "I know this one. Jarvis is making a humourous comment in order to smooth over a potentially embarrassing interruption. It is a well-meant social gesture. We should respond with polite laughter."

Aviczue gave Zyan a significant look: "Is this your doing?"

"Might've had a small hand in it," Zyan shrugged. "I had no idea he was going to come in here with a bunch of flowers and go all Jane Austen on you, though. That's news to me."

"Don't you dare engage in any mockery of this moment whatsoever," Aviczue ordered. "With or without allusions to classical Terran literature."

"Yes ma'am," Zyan smiled. "Also, it's called Earth. But anyway: how are you?"

"Apparently fine, apparently fully transitioned, although to be totally honest that's just manifesting as everything being too bright and too loud, right now. Also: why are you two even talking, Marin?" She asked.

"Jarvis and I have decided our differences are unimportant when set against the prospect of several centuries of association," Janso answered her. "I have decided he is not such a bad sort. He has decided I am apparently not a soulless military robot."

Aviczue laughed.

"Well, since you're not at death's door, I'll leave you two to it." Zyan smiled. "I'd advise rest – they work you pretty hard once you're up and about. You get the message about the cutters, Janso?"

"I think, at this point, 'Marin' will do just fine," Janso – Marin – said. "But yes, I did."

"Zyan – or even Zy – will do just fine an' all Marin," Zyan told him.

"Aw – do _you two_ need to get a room?" Aviczue teased.

"You said no mockery," Zyan reminded her.

"Yep – _I_ said that," she replied. "My room, my rules."

"I'm off to see if the cutter lab is still open," Zyan informed them. "Glad you came through okay, Aviczue. See you both later."

\- o O o -

When Zyan got up there, the cutter technician was still, in fact, in.

"You just caught me. Here you go – not to be used until Dane's trained you on it." He unshipped a very nicely made device from a rack behind him and handed it to Zyan.

"Thank you, and understood," Zyan said. "This is top shelf kit, man. Wow." He said.

He meant it, too. Even in this age of freely available high-tech equipment, you could tell when something was merely stamped out by a production line and when it was the product of real craftsmanship, and the sonic cutter was definitely the latter. Zyan could see it in the precise lines of the casing and could feel it in the way the grips fit his hands exactly.

"You're welcome," Clarend said, clearly pleased. "May you use it to cut well and profitably."

"I'll do my best," Zyan promised him. "What's the power source, standard neolithium battery?"

Clarend shook his head, then grinned. "They _used_ to use NL batteries here. _My_ cutters, however, come with twin redundant FSP-5 spec microfusion reactors. Lifetime is three years – even the most crystal mazed among you manage to remember to get them serviced at least twice in that period, so there's no problem with replacing the fuel nodes in time. However, if by some incredible concatenation of unfortunate circumstances both reactors were to cease functioning – which they would do _safely_ \- _then_ the cutter would fall back to an NL battery, good for thirteen point 8 hours of usage."

" _Nice."_ Zyan nodded, hefting it. "Would've expected it to weigh more, for that."

Clarend almost literally buffed his nails. "I was able to come up with a few ways of reducing the required mass. The patents, I'm told, are highly lucrative."

"Also nice," Zyan sighed in regret. "Never got the chance to play with an MFR, let alone a top-grade custom one. Lucky to get my hands on a half-decent NL battery in my previous career. Got to admit I really want to have the service panels off this to see how it works," Zyan confessed.

"You did hear the part about it having twin fusion reactors, didn't you?" Clarend asked him.

"Someone says 'microfusion reactor', I hear 'fascinating bit of shiny tech'. What can I say, I'm an inveterate tinkerer," Zyan answered.

"I heard," Clarend told him. Zyan wondered _what_ , exactly, he'd heard. "As much as I sympathise with the natural inclinations of a fellow tech nerd, though, please don't. I don't doubt you're competent technically, but it never ends well. Bring it in for a service after every trip, and if you're going off planet, make sure to bring it back here for storage. I guarantee you'll never need to do any field maintenance. If you absolutely _must_ get a status report from it, hold your wrist unit over the area of the casing where your name is etched and lightly tap the trigger three times. It'll flash a package of diagnostic info."

"Standard diagnostic markup language?" Zyan asked.

"With a few extras, but yeah, anything that can parse a standard SDML file will be able to read it. And if you absolutely _must_ have a peek inside one, then when you're not busy training come down here and you can observe me doing maintenance. Lars keeps badgering me to be more 'inclusive' with singers so you'd be doing me a favour," Clarend told him. "Although I must say it's nice for a singer to actually be _interested_ , for a change. Normally it's just 'I've broken this and _obviously_ it wasn't my fault but your shoddy workmanship, now fix it yesterday'," the man sighed.

"Oh Clarend, you wrong us so," came a familiar voice from behind Zyan. "Are we truly such shallow, vicious creatures?"

It was Shecherzia Alar, accompanied by her largely silent partner. They were dressed, Zyan noted, in hard-wearing working gear, which was worn and scuffed in places but looked to have been recently cleaned. Alar still managed to cut a striking figure even in utilitarian gear, her partner less so.

"CS Alar, CS Korzac," Clarend greeted them with a cordial nod. "You're here for your cutters?" Clarend asked.

"Why else would we be here?" The one identified as Korzac answered flatly. Clarend seemed unaffected by the rudeness, but Alar affected dismay.

"Danlo, really! There is no call for such discourtesy. Are you _trying_ to prove Clarend right?" It was a real snap back at him, with real heat. Either she was a very good actress or she wasn't overly taken with her 'partner' – or both.

"Do you want to go back to cutting on your own?" Was Korzac's sour response.

"It's starting to seem like an appealing alternative," Shecherzia told him, then turned an insincere smile on Zyan. "CS Jarvis. You survived, I see."

Zyan would have preferred his first 'CS Jarvis' to come from someone else. Almost anyone else, in fact.

"Sorry to disappoint," he replied flatly.

Shecherzia gave him a disdainful look. "It's a dangerous profession and the night is yet young," she said, then re-arranged her features into a pleasant mask. "I'm joking, of course. The very best of luck to you."

Zyan arranged an equally fake smile. "Of course you are." He turned back to the technician. "Thanks, Clarend. I'll definitely take you up on that invite."

"It would be my genuine pleasure," Clarend replied.

"Are you going to yammer all evening? We need our cutters," Korzac demanded flatly – of who, it wasn't clear.

Shecherzia glared at him again. "Perhaps, while I was here, I could upgrade to a newer model," she commented, standing beside Zyan rather than her partner. "Something likely to last a bit longer, perhaps perform a bit better when and where it matters."

It was an obvious insult, and nobody there thought she was really talking about sonic cutters. Korzac merely sneered and gave a soft snort of breath. Clarend looked mortified.

 _Enough of this_ , Zyan thought, refusing to be embarrassed, and equally resolute not to get drawn into anything. "Clarend: bye for now. CS Alar: don't put me in the middle of your personal stuff, please."

"Oh, you're no fun, Jarvis," Shecherzia sighed, and turned her smile on Clarend. "Would you be so kind, dear Clarend, as to fetch our cutters? Danlo and I are, as he has made clear in a somewhat abrasive fashion, off into the ranges."

Clarend's answering smile and nervous swallow made it clear that he was by no means as inured as Zyan was to her blandishments. Zyan slung his cutter over his shoulder, turned, and left.

\- o O o -

By the end of his first morning tuning crystal, Zyan was halfway convinced he'd picked the wrong job. It was exhausting stuff.

The guild cube had a suite of training rooms set aside for tuning crystal, into one of which Dane - now bereft of his high-tech orthopaedic device and walking with only a slight limp - took Marin and Zyan. It had a few crates of crystal stacked up in readiness: Zyan could feel a faint sussuration from it, as, apparently, did Janso. A workbench with some sort of complex, multi-jawed vice set up on it completed the equipment. The crystal they were about to practice on was, Dane explained, sent in from nearer star systems or just removed from ships that put in at Shankill to have crystal drive or comms equipment replaced. Flawed or crazed crystal was hazardous material, expensive to dispose of properly, so captains were happy enough to have someone take it off their hands and sign the appropriate disclaimer. It was essentially free – until it was retuned it had no significant value. It also tended to be the shabbier end of the crystal market: light blues and pinks were the shades that recruits were normally allowed to work with.

"Does anyone ever send any black in?" Zyan asked.

"No – people tend to look after it real well. It never suffers from faulty bracketing and the techs who work with it never overload it. Something pretty significant has to go wrong for black to need replacing," Dane said meaningfully.

A sudden thought occurred to Zyan that had not occurred to him before. "There wasn't anyone from the Guild on Djiel when-"

"No." It was Marin who answered. "The Protectorate regime discouraged off-planet visitors, and the FSP had, at the time of your operation, already classified the Djiel system as a war zone and put measures in place to prevent FSP citizens from travelling there. No FSP observers from any agency were on-planet at the time, and FSP military personnel had yet to be deployed. The black crystal installation had been illegally seized by the Protectorate regime, in violation of a FSP treaty, and converted into a military base. It was a legitimate target. Set your mind at ease."

Zyan nodded, relieved. "Well, that's good. Also: wow, you really looked into this, didn't you?"

"I do not wish to repeat mistakes I have already made once before," Marin said. "Never again will I make a decision based upon insufficient information."

"Well that's certainly real laudable of you," Dane said. "Now, best if we get back to the subject at hand."

Dane then ran through the basics of using a sonic cutter without killing yourself or removing one or more limbs: either your own or someone else's. Marin and Zyan were then required to go through the motions of activating their cutters.

That done, they moved onto setting their cutters to the correct note. They once again did a few dry runs, pitching their cutters at various frequencies, singing the note and feeling the blade vibrate in harmony.

"Right. Time to get your hands dirty," Dane said. He flipped the lid off the first crate with casual familiarity and withdrew a quintuple of light blue shafts, setting them on the workbench. Taking a small hammer, he tapped each in turn. The middle crystal sounded off. "Simple job: just recut it to pitch. You can take it in turns until I'm satisfied you know what you're about."

Dane fished a coin out if his pocket. "Zyan, call."

"Heads," Zyan said.

Dane flipped. It came up tails, but Marin insisted Zyan go first, so he did.

He set his cutter, cleared his throat, and cut. Zyan had never been electrocuted by an enraged cat screeching in C sharp, but he'd bet that if it was a particularly highly charged, very angry lion then it might - _might_ \- feel like his first experience of putting blade to crystal. He gritted mental teeth and completed the cut.

"Adequate," Dane judged. "Right: next."

Subsequent cuts were a bit easier, and he did get better as the days went by, but it was never going to be Zyan's favourite way to spend a morning. It left him feeling simultaneously drained and buzzing - it was not unlike the feeling in the immediate aftermath of a sortie over Protectorate held territory.

Sessions tuning crystal were invariably followed by sled simulation, and then, in what Zyan considered to be borderline sadism, they were tested on their knowledge of the Rules and Regs. The rationale behind this was clear enough: you had to be able to safely fly your sled in frankly harrowing weather conditions after you'd knackered yourself out cutting crystal, and you needed to know the Rules and Regs no matter what state you were in. Zyan's charitable disposition towards Dane started to slip a bit, though, and in his more vindictive moments he found himself wanting to tell the singer where he could shove paragraph five of section four of chapter eight.

The remainder of class 1999 moved out of the infirmary and started their training, and evening gatherings started to be a thing again, at least when anyone had any spare energy or it was a rest day. Everyone had come through their adaptations with all their senses intact, or at least all the ones they'd need to sing crystal, but Zyan noticed a few differences in some of his peers. Tornaz was just as quick to humour as he'd been before, and Pharisa equally quick to whack him on the arm when she considered he'd gone too far, but Hollin seemed to have lost most of his shyness – or perhaps gained confidence might be a better way of putting it. Colina was nowhere near as quiet as she'd been before her transition. Aviczue, out of them all, seemed the least affected – but she told them that her physical transition had been, according to Presnol, more pronounced than usual: she was much faster and stronger.

"Going to be interesting the next time I go climbing," she said. "Or go back into the dojo."

"I would be delighted to spar with you," Marin offered. They were now definitely 'an item'. Zyan had entertained a few inappropriate thoughts about Aviczue since he'd met her, but he certainly didn't feel any jealousy.

"I'd bet you would," Tornaz commented – and was duly whacked on the arm by Pharisa.

Zyan had his first checkup, and, much to the discomfiture of the Guild's medical minds, still didn't register pain as pain.

"I seriously haven't noticed anything odd, though," he told Donalla.

"That's because pain is, thankfully, not something you come across very often – at least not within the guild cube, at any rate. The brain uses pain signals for very many good reasons and it's worrisome that you're experiencing...interference with them." She was not happy, having expected Zyan's neurology to come back to some form of equilibrium.

"Donalla, I know it's not my field but it _has_ only been like a week. That's not that long, right?" Zyan asked.

"Ten days, to be precise, and I would have expected to see _some_ change in your readings by now," she answered.

"I'll have a word with Sammy Symbiont, see if he won't get his behind in gear and sort it out," Zyan replied.

Donalla laughed. "You're the fourth person today I've heard calling it 'Sammy'. Your friend Tornaz already has a legacy within the guild, I think."

"Don't tell him that – there'll be no living with him if he gets it into his head he's got a 'legacy'," Zyan replied.

He was dismissed back to his training, which, a few days later, he was told was over. Dane had decided that he and Marin were ready. They were going out into the ranges.

\- o O o -

This information was, in point of fact, imparted to him not by Dane but by Jolinda, who appeared one morning to watch him tuning crystal. He and Marin had graduated to separate practice rooms, and Zyan had found, to his delight, that he was actually making good money retuning crystal.

"Dane is of the opinion that you and your friend Marin are ready for your first trip into the ranges," she told them.

"Please tell me you've made a bet with him about this," Zyan responded.

"That I will not say," Jolinda smiled. "I'm sure that the fact my esteemed partner's leg is all better and he's itching to get out of the cube has no bearing whatsoever on his opinion. However, you seem to know one end of a sonic cutter from the other and Flight tell me that the pair of you are both naturals behind the controls of a sled, so I'm willing to entertain the notion that he might not be completely wrong. "

Dane was sparing in his praise, so this came as a surprise to Zyan, who had envisioned week after week of tuning and simulated flight and yet more rules and regs until passover came and he was either confined to a radiant tank in the bowels of the cube or shunted off to Shankill to sit it out in orbit.

"Wow," Zyan replied. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Jolinda replied. "Also, the Guildmaster is pushing for as many singers as possible to be out in the ranges trying black co-ordinates."

"I'd go after black first time out?" Zyan asked, surprised.

Jolinda snorted. "No, of course not – but your second time? Definitely. There's issues, apparently – I don't know the details but I'm told we need black more than ever. Desperately enough that the Guildmaster is willing to push you two – and your classmates, once they too have achieved a basic level of competence – out the hangar door a lot sooner than is usual."

"Okay. So what happens now?" Zyan asked.

"First, I tell Flight that you and Marin need sleds. Manufacturing don't have anything new ready to go, but there are plenty of serviceable reconditioned sleds that just require safety checks: that will have to do. Then, you and Marin fly with Dane and I to what we know are viable co-ordinates. You'll watch us cut for a day or two, get some hands on experience, then you'll be sent to a set of co-ordinates of your own – not black, not for you, first time out and on your own aswell," Jolinda explained.

"That reminds me of something Donalla said. If you've had a Milekey transition, you're in increased danger of what she called _thrall,_ " Zyan said.

Jolinda nodded. "Nobody's been able to do a study of any kind, but most people who know what they're talking about ascribe to that theory. The spore confers huge advantages on us, but sometimes, it seems to hand out a bit of a curse to those it blesses most highly. Singers who are sensitive to black are almost always easily thralled by it – and sometimes by other colours, too. It's most likely when the crystal is in direct sunlight, so you can try and hold your body between it and the sun, but the only way of making 100% sure you don't end up holding what you've cut until a mach storm splashes you all over the nearest rockface is to cut with a partner."

"Should I team up with Marin, then?" Zyan asked.

"Maybe. Possibly. I understand he's formed an attachment to another class member?"

"Aviczue, yeah."

"Well, they'll probably partner up. It usually seems to work that way – if you're solid as a couple you'll be solid as a partnership, and vice-versa. A temporary partner can sometimes be a bit awkward, if you don't really vibe," Jolinda opined.

"Like Shecherzia and Korzac?" Zyan asked.

"How did you-? Never mind, they're not exactly discreet and this place is worse than a village square for gossip, sometimes. Yes, Shecherzia's latest attempt at finding a partner is a fairly good example of how not to do it. Neither of them have a claim worth an old half credit, I suspect, and she likes to live high on the hog. A hangover from when she was famous, no doubt," Jolinda said, proving her own point about gossip, but Zyan wasn't about to shut down the flow of information by pointing that out.

"Can't she just get some co-ordinates to try?" Zyan asked.

"Yes, well, you'd _think_ , wouldn't you? The thing is, well, you'd find this out sooner or later so I suppose I can tell you, Guildmaster Dahl's way of doing things isn't universally approved. _Some_ singers think they're better than that. They want to cut _their_ claims, when _they_ want to. They think a certain standard of living should be theirs by right. Offworld, they behave appallingly. On Ballybran, they've become used to being deferred to by people who should be - who _are -_ their equals: sorters, technicians, medics. Colleagues who keep this guild running, who deserve respect, and whose specialist skills they'd be unable to function without." Jolinda's face became hard.

"Sounds like a few striking workers could sort that our pretty quickly," Zyan said offhandedly.

"Zyan! There's never been a strike in the history of the guild!" Jolinda appeared genuinely shocked at the concept.

"Doesn't have to apply to everyone," Zyan shrugged. "Act nice, your sled gets refuelled and resupplied and your crystal gets sorted. Act the goat and it doesn't. Problem'll soon go away."

Jolinda appeared to give this a moment's thought, but then shook her head. "It's not the way things are done here. In any case, the guild needs _all_ singers out in the ranges cutting as much as possible, right now. We can't afford to have some of them be rendered unproductive due to industrial action. No matter how well-intentioned it might be. I _really_ wouldn't mention that idea to anyone else, Zyan."

"I hear you," Zyan said. He started the mental process of figuring out who to talk to about it right then and there. The Sorters seemed like a good starting place: they weren't afraid of squaring off against truculent singers.

"Getting back in the general direction of my point, anyway, Shecherzia sees herself as one of this breed, even though she's been a singer only a year or two longer than I have. She's too proud to be seen adopting the working practices of mere 'employees'." Jolinda sounded slightly bitter, then recollected herself. "All of which is just more reason to get you and Marin out in the ranges and cutting on co-ordinates that we know are productive. As to a partner, well – if you're out in the ranges with someone, it's got to be someone you trust. Intimately. If there's anyone in your class you're close to, they'd be a good starting point. They won't be too long behind you, so once you've made your first trip, make it a priority."

Zyan nodded. "I will."

"Good. I'll inform the Guildmaster you and Marin are ready. The weather over the Joslin plateau should be clear by tomorrow morning – we'll be going then." Jolinda gave him a tight smile, and left him to his tuning.

\- o O o -

There was, unfortunately, a big problem. Almost immediately. That evening, Zyan and Marin were in the common room with most of the rest of the group. The news that they were going out into the ranges had not, as Zyan had privately feared, resulted in any jealousy. The news that Jolinda had hinted that the rest of them weren't far behind had gone some way to heading this off, as had promises of being given All The Details when they returned, but they were also just, simply put, good people. There was bound to be someone in the group who'd partner him – not all of them were in relationships with another member. These musings were cut short when Dane approached.

"Hey all," he greeted them.

"I am _really_ not in the mood for any rules and regs right now, Dane," Tornaz said with a groan.

Dane cracked a smile, but it was a rote, half-hearted thing. "Relax, Molovsky. I'm here to give these two bad news, not you." He pointed at Zyan and Marin.

"Oh well in that case let me get you a drink," Tornaz said.

Dane waved him off. "Zyan, Marin, a word please."

He took them aside. "The bad news is, well, it's bad news for one of you, anyway. Which kinda makes it worse," Dane sighed. "One of you ain't gonna be goin' out anytime soon. Sorry to have to break it to you so soon after Jo said you were ready."

Marin frowned. "I thought, starting tomorrow, clear weather was predicted over the Milekey ranges for the next several days?"

Dane nodded. "It's not the weather. It's sleds. Turns out there ain't exactly an embarrassment of serviceable sleds right now. There's only _one_ available – and it's a single, not a double. In a pinch you coulda gone out together in a double but, well, that might've had it's own complications to be totally honest."

"Are there any other sleds that could be fixed up in time?" Zyan asked.

Dane shook his head. "Maybe, but they've been runnin' kinda tight on manpower down in the sled shop for a while, now – one of the kind of specialists we desperately need is aerospace techs – and, long story short, it's gonna take them a few days to get maintenance done for active singers' sleds before they can get to commissionin' an additional one. Really sorry, guys, but one of you is gonna have to cool your heels here for a bit longer. When your sled is ready and the Guildmaster can find someone else to shepherd you, you can go out – but to be totally frank it's not going to be this week. Me an' Jo'd be happy to wait to take you both out, but Lars says no – he needs us out cutting. There must be some serious pressure on for crystal, right now. Again, I'm really sorry. Me and Jo both feel bad over this."

"We understand, Dane," Marin said. "Duty to the Guild must come first. Your guilt and bad feelings are unnecessary, and you may now feel free to stop telling us about them. Please tell CS Jolinda to also not tell us about them."

Zyan winced. "He means that-"

Dane gave a rueful grin. "I know what he means, Zyan. Thanks, Marin. We knew you two'd understand. So, um, you want to borrow a coin to flip for it?"

"Nah," Zyan said. "We'll both see you tomorrow in the hangar."

Dane looked guilty again. "It ain't gonna be 'we', Zyan. Didn't you just hear what-?"

"I heard you were short of aerospace techs," Zyan said, with a smile. "And you happen to be talking to one right now."

\- o O o -

Dane and Jolinda made some calls. Half an hour later, Zyan and Marin were stood in the sled shop.

"Tools," the Flight Officer said, pointing to a zero-grav trolley stacked with metal boxes and diagnostic equipment, most of which looked reasonably familiar to Zyan, who'd spent almost as long repairing craft as flying them.

"Status of this sled and readiness checklist." He handed Zyan a wadge of printout. A very _thick_ wadge.

"Spare parts." He pointed through the sled shop door that led to what the techs called the Boneyard: the racks of dead sleds that were available for spare parts.

"Thank you, sir," Marin said.

"Hmph. Well, best of luck, I suppose. You break anything or blow it up, it's on you," the Flight Officer told them before departing. He clearly didn't hold out much hope.

The sled before them was, the Flight Officer had admitted, the best of a bad lot. Recent recruitment had contained more specialists than singer hopefuls, and the number of sleds that had been completely written off was, blessedly, going down. Add this to manpower shortages, and the sled shop had started to let the number of sleds kept in readiness for deployment slide: all the way down to one. It was nobody's fault, really – the techs were all needed elsewhere.

The next most serviceable sled was in need of a full diagnostic on it's drive unit, some critical maintenance on other important systems, and, more than likely, several things would need swapping out.

Zyan had already told Marin he could have the operable sled. Marin had refused. Zyan had said no way – but if it helped him feel better he could assist with the upcoming nightshift Zyan was about to pull getting his own sled up and running. Marin assented to this.

Zyan flicked through the sheaf of printout. There was a _lot_ to do if he was going to be able to fly this thing out of the hangar tomorrow, even if he cut a few non-essential corners.

"This is going to take some doing," he admitted.

"Probably good you've got a lot of help, then," Tornaz's voice came from behind him. The eleven other members of the team walked into the shop, led by Dane and Jolinda.

"They wouldn't let us alone until we told them what was happening," Jolinda explained.

"And when we told 'em what you were plannin', well, they wanted to help," Dane added.

"And so do we." Jolinda smiled. "The Guildmaster sends good luck, too."

"The Guildmaster knows about this?" Zyan was surprised.

"That's who we called," Dane said. "Flight weren't overly happy about lettin' you in here, but he put his foot down. Seems like a 'presumed' qualification is good enough for him."

"I owe him, then. I owe all of you. Thanks, everyone." Zyan was, genuinely, touched.

"Don't you go getting' all emotional again, Jarvis," Dane warned him.

"I'll do my best," Zyan promised him.

"So – what do we do?" Tornaz asked.

Zyan realised that everyone was looking at him expectantly. This wasn't an unprecedented position for him to be in, but he still found it a little daunting.

"Okay – who's got experience working with anything technical at all?" Zyan asked.

The answer was, surprisingly, quite a few of them. Marin had some basic knowledge of field maintenance for various bits of military kit, up to and including had designed and built comm installations before deciding to become a crystal singer. Pharisa had been a computer tech, specialising in security systems but confident of being able to work a diagnostics tool. Three of the other girls – Hilyan, Q'Tonisa and a girl called Rhanui – had been in technical or scientific occupations before joining the guild. Everyone else, including Dane and Jolinda, had no applicable skills but were willing to do anything to help out.

Zyan split everyone up into two or three person teams, with a technical bod in each team, and assigned them to finding parts or performing a particular diagnostic task. Zyan checked any parts they retrieved from the Boneyard, discarding some as past use and fitting any that passed muster. While he was not doing that, he was undertaking the all-important drive unit diagnostic. One team was despatched to Supply to bring back basic rations, bedding and other necessaries – another relabelled the empty crates in the hold with Zyan's guild ID. Hollin showed himself to be a fair judge of clothing by fetching protective work gear in the right size.

It was, if truth be told, an almost classic case of too many cooks. Everyone seemed to be so happy helping, though, and the atmosphere was convivial despite the rush. Zyan didn't have the heart to tell anyone they were a fifth wheel.

It took four and a half hours, in the end, to get the sled to a stage where all the critical systems checked out, it could be legally flown, it could carry crystal, and Zyan would be able to live in it for a few days. It looked patched and dented, it was in serious need of a respray with orange safety paint, and at some point Zyan was going to have to do something about the mouldy, mildewy smell that permeated the living quarters – but it was functional and he could fly it tomorrow: or rather later on that day, as it was well past midnight.

"Ladies and gentlemen, congratulations," Zyan said, snapping shut a portable computer and unjacking the cable from the control panel. "We have officially achieved 'that'll do' – this baby is logged in as cleared for operational deployment with one Zyan E Jarvis behind the controls. Pats on the back all round."

There was a cheer, followed by laughter.

"Come here," Aviczue said, and made him stand a few paces away from the sled. She stood behind him and put her hands over his eyes. There was the sound of spraying.

"Okay – you can look," Tornaz said.

Aviczue took her hands away. "Tada!"

Tornaz had sprayed 'That'll Do' on the sled's nose. Someone, during the last half hour, had sneaked away and come back with a bottle of fizz. Pharisa was chosen to do the honours.

"Probably best not to hit it too hard!" Someone quipped, to general laughter.

"I christen this airsled the _That'll Do_. May any deities currently paying attention bless her and all who fly in her, I suspect they'll probably need any help they can get!" Pharisa announced. There was more laughter, and then she swung the bottle against the sled's nose. This left a dent in both the bottle and the airsled. Repeated attempts only produced similar results.

"It's plastic!" She said, identifying the issue. There was another round of laughter and some good natured jeering directed at Hollin, who had purchased the offending bottle.

"I don't think they _do_ glass ones any more, to be fair," he said.

"Waste of perfectly good alcohol anyway," Tornaz said, taking the bottle from Pharisa. "Let's take it back to the common room and drink it."

"And then get to bed," Colina said, yawning.

"Speech!" Aviczue called out with a laugh, a call which was then repeated around the group until a boisterous chant of 'Speech" Speech! Speech!' had broken out. Zyan decided he'd better say something.

"Thank you everyone," he said. "Seriously. I came to Ballybran alone, not knowing what to expect, not really knowing why I was even doing it except I had to do _something_. A few days later and I've got like fifty million more friends than I ever had before – I include you and Dane, in that, too, Jolinda - and something to actually look forward to. You lot are miracle workers, really."

There was a moment of quiet and a few ' _awwws_ ', before Tornaz spoke up in an affected stentorian tone. "This is more than just a sled, good people of Ballybran. This is a symbol, nay, an icon of-"

The bottle of wine chose this moment to respond to it's recent abusive treatment by forcing the cork explosively outwards and spraying it's contents over Tornaz, again to much hilarity.

"Alright, clearly an adult has to step in here," Dane said. "Marin, Zyan – go get some rest. Tornaz, stop moaning and go get a shower for shard's sake. Everyone else: your work here is done. Go celebrate."

This brought things to a good natured end, with everyone filtering back out to the common room or their quarters. Zyan looked at his scruffy sled. He didn't think he'd ever received a better gift.

"You guys are somethin' special, Zyan, I'll give you that. Ain't never seen the like of this since I left Earth. Singers ain't normally co-operative types," Dane said. He had remained behind.

"You and Jolinda are. Couldn't've managed this without you," Zyan replied, still looking at the sled.

"Leave off, Zyan: I've got a gruff, acerbic reputation to maintain," Dane quipped. "Don't stare at her all night, man - we got an early start."

"I won't," Zyan promised. Dane followed the others.

He did stare at her a bit more. She was quite the most beautiful bit of kit Zyan had ever seen, right then. The moment was ruined when a member of the hangar crew came in and insisted he clean up the spilt wine, but it was okay – nothing was going to ruin the mood he was in right now.


	12. Chapter 12

Meteorology were bang on the money – sunrise arrived with clear skies and bright sunshine. The narrow slot of blue visible through the open hangar doors looked particularly inviting: since symbiosis, Zyan had been too busy to venture outdoors.

He turned up early, dressed in his singer's coveralls with his cutter slung over his back and a toolbelt around his waist: if the _That'll Do_ required some field maintenance, he didn't want to be without the means to carry it out. His sled had been moved out onto the main hangar floor, alongside Marin's decidedly more reputable-looking sled and a larger, longer one that was, presumably, Dane and Jolinda's.

His tool belt also contained the stripped down stunner. He'd told himself repeatedly that he wouldn't need it. It was just a precaution, to be used only in the event of something insanely unlikely like an altercation with a posse of violent, crystal-mad claim jumpers. He still felt a tad disloyal to Dane and Jolinda for bringing it, though.

The Flight Officer surprised Zyan by coming over to speak to him with a smile. "I have to admit, you've surprised me," he said. "I came down early to double check your sled – don't judge me, if you knew the complete disrespect most singers have for their sleds you'd've checked too. I freely admit I expected to find numerous and dangerous omissions and mistakes, but I'm glad to be wrong. She might not be pretty, but she's solid. Good job – and I'm sorry we didn't have one ready for you."

"Thank you, um, sir," Zyan responded, "and it's not a problem."

"First time anyone's ever _named_ their sled, too, by the way," he observed.

"That bit wasn't my idea, but I have to admit it's kinda grown on me," Zyan admitted.

The Flight Officer smiled. "Well, any time you decide you want to pad out your earnings from singing crystal by fixing up a sled or two, comm me. For real: you wouldn't believe the backlog we've got."

"Thank you again, Flight Officer," Zyan said, inwardly quite happy at the implied compliment.

"The name's Murr," Murr said. "Have a good trip and try not to put any more dents in that thing." He gave him a thumbs up before heading off towards flight control.

"Wonders never cease," came Dane's drawl. "You actually managed to raise a smile from Murr. I don't think I've ever seen him crack his face."

Jolinda shushed her partner, for Murr wasn't that far away, but it didn't appear the man had heard – the hangar was not a quiet place. Marin made his appearance shortly thereafter.

"So, um, shall we?" Zyan asked, keen to get underway.

Jolinda shook her head. "There's few formalities to run through before we can go – we'll have to wait for a guy from Legal."

"And if you thought Flight was humourless, he ain't got nothin' on them," Dane grumbled. Jolinda shot him a look, and he subsided.

"It's just to run through and record our consent to shepherd you, before we head out," Jolinda explained.

"Used to be it was just really desperate singers who'd agree to shepherd new recruits, just for the bonus – usually they were so crystal mazed they could barely remember their own names. They'd take recruits to their crappiest claims and maybe, _maybe_ , remember that the recruit was there to learn and not claim jump. Guildmaster Dahl's changed that a bit, now – it's usually partners who shepherd rather than singers on their own, and usually someone he trusts not to freak out. Also, we go to an inactive singer's co-ordinates which is specially set aside as a training area, held by the guild rather than an individual singer – we call them sandboxes. They are, generally speaking, fairly low value claims: pink or light blue in the main. We're all of us entitled to what we cut there for two days – not that it'll be much, in the current market. Then you two go off to another pair of inactive's co-ordinates: those become your first claims, and we head off to cut where we'd usually cut. Much better all round – the guy who shepherded me was a total lost-it case name of Gobbain Tekla, looked about 500 years old, he didn't remember who I was – hadda keep the legal agreement on constant replay just to keep him from taking my sharding head off with his cutter." Dane shook his head.

"The chap who shepherded me was _much_ worse," Jolinda said. "I could barely understand a single word he said, he spoke in such a weird accent. He was from some backwater planet that barely anyone travels to anymore. Wouldn't leave me alone for a single minute and insisted on following me around for the next twenty years. Terrible ordeal."

Zyan laughed. Marin frowned. "This is completely unacceptable behaviour! Surely an FSP citizen's rights are protected even on Ballybran?"

Dane sighed. "Every time, Jo. Same joke. Every time."

"Oh!" Marin twigged. " _Dane_ was the singer who shepherded you, and this was the beginning of your relationship. You are intentionally representing this in a humourously misleading fashion! Haha!"

"Marin," Jolinda said. "Don't ever change. Promise."

"I shall undertake to remain as I am, ma'am," Marin promised.

"Pretty sure he means that," Zyan agreed.

They were interrupted by a delicate cough. "Morning, Jolinda," a woman interrupted. The guy from Legal was, in fact, a girl from Legal. Far from being the diminutive, bookish sort that Zyan had been half-expecting, she was tall, slender and frankly beautiful. She also carried a white stick equipped with a package of proximity sensors. She was blind, Zyan realised, although without the stick as a clue you would not have known it: her eyes were a startling ice-blue colour. Combined with her pale complexion and silvery blonde hair it gave her an imposing, ice-maidenish presence, but that was offset by her smile, which was warm and genuine.

"Oh, hi Alenda!" Jolinda greeted her with familiarity – she seemed to know her. "Why are _you_ down here?"

Alenda's smile turned somewhat wan. "I'll be honest – I needed a break from the current business. When I heard it was you playing shepherd I flagrantly abused my lofty position in order to nip out for a bit. Sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Don't worry. You haven't met Dane, have you? Dane, this is Alenda, the Guild's Senior Counsel. Alenda, this is Dane, my partner," Jolinda introduced them.

"Hey," Dane and Alenda shook hands. "Pleased to meet ya."

Zyan riffled through his brain a bit. The Senior Counsel would be the Guild's highest ranking lawyer – of Chief rank. Going through the formalities of shepherding was presumably well below her pay grade.

"Likewise," Alenda said with a smile. "And you must be Zyan Jarvis and Marin K'Tar Janso?"

"Ma'am," Marin – and Zyan – both responded. Alenda favoured them with a smile.

"The 'current business' is still not resolved, then?" Jolinda asked, looking concerned.

Alenda shook her head. "No. Best not discussed out here, though."

"Of course," Jolinda said. Zyan's internal radar pinged loudly. This was hardly the first hint that all was not well in the Guild.

"Somewhat miffed with you, by the way, when I found out all of your 'catch' had made satisfactory transitions," Alenda told Jolinda.

Zyan braced himself internally.

Even Jolinda looked slightly apprehensive. "Why's that?"

"It's more of a _who._ Hollin Langtry," Alenda answered – to almost everyone's surprise. Then Zyan remembered that Hollin had been a lawyer.

"Hollin?" Dane asked, amazed. "The quiet guy? Wouldn't say boo to a goose?"

"He may be quiet, but he's also one of the best intergalactic contract lawyers currently practicing. I was – completely selfishly, I confess – hoping that he'd make only a tolerable transition so I could poach him for the Contracts team," Alenda smiled again.

Jolinda laughed. "I had no idea. Sorry – he's ours, now."

"Such is life," Alenda joked. "Well, let's not keep you waiting any longer. We'll start with CS Danelaw," Alenda said, turning a bit more formal. "If you'll repeat after me?"

They then launched into a series of legal scripts that Alenda copied onto all their sleds' onboard computers, so they could be replayed at any time, in all sleds, from any of the other sleds. This seemed like a truly ridiculous level of overkill to Zyan, and he made a mental note to ask Hollin if this was a common practice anywhere else in the galaxy. It seemed to take forever, but in reality it was probably only fifteen minutes or so.

Alenda ran her fingers over her wrist unit when they'd finished. "It's so much quicker, now, without all the repetitions and promptings and worrying if they even knew why they were there," she remarked.

"Hallelujah to that," Dane agreed.

"Best of luck, singers. May you cut well and profitably. Jolinda, Dane, I'll see you around, I'm sure," Alenda said, then went back the way she came. She walked, Zyan noted, with complete assurance and no trace of hesitancy – easily avoiding any obstacles in her path and even stopping to allow a heavily-laden hangar hand to walk past her.

Then she paused, and turned her head. "It's rude to stare, Zyan Jarvis," she said, with a slight smile.

"I wasn't! I mean, I was. Not in that way, though. Sorry. I was just admiring the way you walked away. No, wait, not that either," Zyan stammered, then swore under his breath: "Shard it!"

Dane laughed – as did Alenda. "Apology accepted," she said, and went on her way.

"How did she even know I was looking?" Zyan asked, mostly, really, to himself.

"The answer to _that_ question, Zyan Jarvis, will cost you a drink in the common room. Message me when you get back," Alenda answered – from even farther away.

Zyan blushed. Dane laughed even more.

Jolinda restrained herself to a slight smile. " _Now_ we can get going," she stated. "The co-ordinates are loaded into your sleds' nav systems, although we'll be keeping company the whole way. Flight time should be approximately two hours. We have decent weather forecast for the next several days – although as you should know by now, you can _never_ trust the weather on Ballybran. Let's go."

They all got into their sleds. Zyan powered up the _That'll Do_ , noting with satisfaction that everything was in the green.

"Flight, this is Jarvis. Clearance for takeoff please," Zyan sent over the comm.

"Clearance granted for immediate takeoff, CS Jarvis," Murr sent back after a moment. Zyan's _second_ CS Jarvis: from a more welcome source than the first.

Dane and Jolinda's sled took off, followed by Marin. Zyan eased the _That'll Do_ gently off the deck and out of the hangar door into the bright sunshine. The trio of sleds rose into the sky, came around to face southwest, then gradually increased their height and speed until they were at a respectable cruising speed. Sleds could, Zyan knew, go almost suborbital if required – and in the thinner upper atmosphere they were capable of up to mach three. This meant you could take a spin round Ballybran's equator in just a shade over 9 hours, if you were of a mind to – it would be largely pointless except for fun, but the implication was this: in a sled, a singer could reach almost any point on Ballybran from the guild cube in a few hours, tops. Today, though, they were going to a site relatively close to the guild cube, in the Milekey range.

For the first half hour of the trip, Zyan was drinking in the views of the terrain that passed below. It took mere minutes for them to pass beyond the skimmer boundary, so with the exception of what he'd seen from orbit, this was his first good look at Ballybran.

Even with his newly enhanced senses, though, Zyan had to admit that once the thrill of being in the air had worn off it all looked a little bit bland and heterogenous. There was very little in the way of flat, level ground: Ballybran was rumpled and creased like an old map, with the occasional rounded peak to break the monopoly of valleys and ridges. The violent geological history that had created her hidden treasure of crystal was still there for the trained eye to see, but Ballybran was an old planet, worn by wind and the elements. What life there was kept it's head down: tufts of tough grasses were all that could be seen, even on magnify. Paint markers – some new, some worn – could be seen from time to time: Zyan saw no sign of any other singers or their sleds. He gave up sightseeing, after a while.

Dane checked in over the radio when they were about halfway there, but otherwise they did not speak. The rigmarole of recording their mutual consent seemed to have been just as unnecessary as Zyan had supposed it to be. He wondered if it _was_ going to be necessary at any point – he hoped not, as that would mean either Dane or Jolinda had become so affected by crystal that they did not remember their own students. He respected and liked them both and hoped this was reciprocated – the thought that this could be wiped away filled him with sadness and dread.

To counter this, Zyan pulled up Donalla's notes on singers on the sled console. The version written for non-medics was very sparse - the entire document had the air of a work-in-progress - but a few of her observations gave him cause for optimism. Chief among them were these:

 _Singers who cut in moderation – an hour at a time, with breaks of a few minutes in between – suffer markedly less memory loss than singers who cut for several hours at a time._

 _Similarly, singers who make short visits to the ranges, of two weeks or less, interspersed with breaks in the guild cube, another sheltered facility or orbit of at least a day, suffer almost no memory loss_

 _Singers who leave their claims before high winds have started to cause them to resonate suffer markedly less memory loss than singers who cut until the very last minute._

The medic went on _: these three working practices (referred to in this lab as the Holy Trinity), if adhered to stringently, can reduce memory loss to almost zero. In one study, fourteen out of seventeen subjects following these working practices over one intra-passover period suffered no appreciable memory remaining three suffered only minor aberration and were able to reconstruct the missing memories from personal recordings._

Donalla was of the very firm opinion that these working practices should be written into the Rules and Regs, and Zyan imagined that she bent the Guildmaster's ear about it whenever she got a chance. She also noted that singers who had joined the Guild recently (she didn't specify what qualified as recently in Heptite Guild terms) were already working in ways similar to this, and were 'much nicer people for it' – which wasn't very empirical but certainly cheering.

They arrived at the sandbox claim somewhat ahead of schedule. It was a small triangular valley, with a large upthrust of rock at one corner. A large yellow square had been painted on it near the top, with a single diagonal line through the middle: from his mandatory study of the Rules and Regs, Zyan knew this to be the marker that indicated a claim held by the Guild rather than an individual singer.

"Are Guild claims common?" Zyan asked over the radio.

"Nope," Dane answered. "Some singers get a bit uppity about it, so the Guildmaster limits it to sandbox claims only. Set down near us, but not too near - leave room so there's easy access to your cargo bay doors. When you land, always check your co-ordinates. You'll need them if you have to radio for assistance. Also check your weather readouts every time you think of it - one day bein' in that habit could save your life."

Zyan followed Marin down after the double sled had landed, and dutifully memorised the co-ordinates on the control panel and checked the weather forecast - clear - before powering the drive down. He untied his cutter from it's bodged rack, slung it over his back, and stepped out onto the valley floor.

"Welcome to the ranges." Jolinda said, outside. It was quite hot, despite the earliness of the hour.

"First off," Dane said, "the basics: eat something and make sure you're hydrated. Finding and cutting crystal is hard, physically demanding work. And for you two right now that goes double: your symbiotes will still be in the process of multiplyin' throughout your bodies."

"Why are you carrying your cutters?" Jolinda asked them. Marin had also brought his out, along with a crate. Neither Dane nor Jolinda had theirs.

"To cut crystal," Marin replied, a little puzzled.

"Okay. Zyan?" She prompted him.

Zyan sensed a rhetorical trick, here, and he wasn't above a minor prevarication in order to not look foolish: "I don't trust the bracket not to fail and dump it on the floor. Seemed more sensible to have it with me."

"Hmmm. I have my doubts as to your veracity, Zyan Jarvis," Jolinda narrowed her eyes.

"That's posh talk for 'liar, liar, pants on fire', in case you were wonderin'," Dane clarified, with a grin.

"Fine. To be honest I just grabbed it on general principles, didn't give it any thought. Let's assume I actually also answered 'so I can cut crystal with it'. And then you say...?"

"Okay, where?" Jolinda asked him.

Zyan had no idea. He couldn't see any exposed crystal, and he couldn't feel any either. Marin looked genuinely ashamed that he had not thought of this.

"You got me. So how do we find it?" Zyan asked.

"We get high," Dane answered, then laughed at his own quip.

Jolinda sighed. "And he has the temerity to accuse _me_ of recycling my jokes. He means we climb up to higher ground. Stow your cutters, grab some rations, and follow me."

\- o O o -

They ate at the top of the rocky outcrop. Finding crystal was easier from up there: the sun was reflected and refracted through the face, revealing what dirt had covered - a vein of crystal close to one of the other corners of the small valley. Zyan thought it would be too far away to make the colour out, but when he looked he found, to his surprise, that he could see it was rose quartz. The symbiote really was a wonderful thing.

This was one method of finding crystal. Another was to sing out and see if it answered, which Dane and Jolinda demonstrated when they all headed back down and geared up with cutters and crates. Zyan and Marin also tried.

Zyan could feel the crystal, too, as they drew closer to it: but it was a hollow echo of the sensation black woke in him.

Dane and Jolinda then demonstrated how to check the face for pitch and set their cutters - A, this time. They cut a matched set of four shafts each, watched attentively by their students. When it came time for the learners to put blade to rock, Zyan let Marin go first, although he was itching to finally cut some crystal and really earn the CS in front of his name.

Marin sang and cut, producing a three shaft set that Jolinda pronounced to be a decent first try.

"As soon as you've cut, pack," Dane said forcefully. "Crystal - even crappy rose like this - wants to be held, stared at and admired. If you give it a chance, it will thrall you. Don't give it that chance. If you see your partner lingering over their crystal, shout at them to pack it. If they don't listen, pull it out of their hands and pack it for them. If you can avoid it, never handle crystal in direct sunlight: cut in shade if you can. Always wear gloves – crystal cuts clean and you'll heal quickly – but if you've got gloves on, there's something between your skin and the crystal, and you're that much less likely to give in to it's wiles and hold onto it for too long."

"You make it sound as if crystal is sentient – and malicious," Marin observed.

"It's not alive, but malicious is exactly what it is," Jolinda said. "Always think of it as being out to get you, and constantly looking for ways to trick you. Make no mistake – crystal is your nemesis."

"Nem what?" Zyan asked.

"Nemesis: a creature from ancient legends of my planet, but a completely spot on perfect term for crystal," Dane translated. "It's your own personal worst enemy, out to get you any way it can, lookin' at all times to make your life a sharding misery and to end it if it gets half a chance. It will never let up, and it will never give you a moment's peace."

Jolinda nodded, pointing at the crystal face. "The minute you don't respect this, it kills you."

Marin nodded and packed his first cut with all the due alacrity this information warranted.

"Zyan - you're up," Dane said.

"Sing clearly, cut steadily, and not too fast," Jolinda advised.

Zyan fired up both his lungs and his cutter and set to work. The sensation as his blade cut into the crystal was intense: waves of sound washed over and through him as the crystal cried out: it was all he could do to finish the cut. The second cut wasn't as traumatic, and subsequent cuts became more bearable. After what seemed like an hour, but was actually just a few moments, he had excised a matched set of four crystals.

"Not bad. Now pack them," Jolinda told him.

When he picked up his first crystal he immediately knew that self-discipline was key to cutting safely. Dane was right: it did invite attention, seeking to captivate with it's soapy smooth texture and sparkling refraction in the sun.

Zyan ruthlessly made himself put it into the crate, then did the same with the remaining three.

It was done. He was a crystal singer.

\- o O o -

They spent the rest of that day learning their trade from Dane and Jolinda - not just how to find crystal and cut it, but the dangers they would face and how to deal with them. Zyan was unsurprised their mentors' idea of how long a singer should cut crystal, stay in the ranges and stay _away_ from the ranges tallied closely with Donalla's, a fact which he mentioned during a rest break.

"We were part of that study," Jolinda admitted. "Donalla is, of course, quite right. If only more singers could be persuaded to work that way, half the guild's problems could be solved overnight."

"If they were the sort that could be swayed by little things like evidence, the Guild wouldn't'a had those problems in the first sharding place," Dane grumbled.

"Some singers _have_ changed," Jolinda countered her partner's pessimism. "Even old hands like Borton can see the benefits of the Guildmaster's new working practices. He's a changed man since he's been cutting from coordinates – he's pleasant company now."

Zyan didn't remember the guy being that pleasant, but didn't comment.

Dane gave a shrug: he didn't seem to have as much faith in human nature as his partner. "Well, they don't do themselves any favours working the way they do. Take it from me, cut moderately, no matter how much you might want to fill your sled with crystal. Cutting too much for too long and barely spending any time out of the ranges is a surefire way to get dead, sooner or later - and sooner or later it'll catch up with them." He paused. "In fact, now I think on it a piece, this problem'll probably sort itself out in time."

"Dane!" Jolinda scolded him. "That's an awful thing to say! They're still people."

"Yeah, I know. Dumb as a box of rocks, but still people," Dane conceded. "Do an old man a favour," he addressed Marin and Zyan, "and don't go down that path."

"Don't you worry," Zyan replied. "I won't."

"I too have no desire to suffer from undue mental aberration," Marin confirmed.

As daylight faded, they had all filled a half dozen crates with rose crystal. Dane and Jolinda pronounced them both proficient.

"I wouldn't advise you to get your hopes up regarding the price, however. Rose is rarely, if ever, in short supply: often it has to be stored until a buyer can be found. The co-ordinates you've each been given should have something more worth your while, though," Jolinda told them, handing them each a sealed envelope.

"Up to you if you want to hightail it over there at first light tomorrow or have another day here. If you want to get some more practice in we'd be more than happy to stick around to help. If not, we get our bonus whether you have one day with us or two," Dane said.

Marin indicated that he was ready to strike out on his own.

Zyan was in two minds about it, if truth be told. Donalla's warnings about not cutting alone weighed heavily on his mind. He set that aside, though. He'd always been self-disciplined, and decided that he would just have to be extra careful to pack as soon as he'd cut.

"Not that you're not good company, guys, but I'm ready to head off on my own, too," Zyan said.

Dane nodded, then grinned. "Not that you ain't either: but I've about had enough of cutting pink. Useless waste of breath. Anyway, it's been a pleasure teaching you two, and the rest of your class. Put it there."

Dane stuck his hand out and they both shook, then Jolinda - usually quite a reserved person - surprised them both with hugs.

"Likewise," she said.

"Let's get packed up and squared away, then. Weather permitting, I got a little surprise. Mark the moment, kinda," Dane said.

The weather continued to behave itself. Dane's surprise turned out to be a bundle of firewood - or at least compacted vegetable waste, formed into loglike sections - with which he built a campfire. An empty crate each made a convenient camp stool. Jolinda handed round beers, which, she said, she brewed herself. She must have been quite good at it, because it tasted nice. After they'd eaten some rations, Dane produced a bag of peculiar squishy pink and white objects. He impaled three of these on skewers and handed one each to Zyan and Marin.

"Marshmallows," Dane explained. "Traditional earth delicacy. Hold 'em near the fire until they melt a bit, then eat them. They're lovely."

"They're little balls of overly sugary nastiness," Jolinda corrected him, wrinkling her nose.

"Jo's not a fan," Dane apologised.

It was a very pleasant evening by the fire, with the stars overhead – light years away from the paranoia and desperation of the shepherding experience Dane had described. He dug a guitar out of his sled, and Marin surprised everyone by performing a rendition of an old Aurigan folk song with it. He had a very good singing voice, much better than Zyan had ever been able to boast. He also lost any trace of his emotionlessly literal manner of speech when singing, too, filling the simple tune with pathos and meaning. Zyan actually applauded at the end.

"Do you do this regularly?" Zyan asked Dane and Jolinda, afterwards.

"Not often, but when we can," Jolinda replied. "Here's the last thing I shall teach you, and I hope you take it to heart since it's the most important lesson I have for you. You have to _stay human_ on this planet _._ Make campfires. Sing songs. Eat horrible half-burned bits of sugary goo off the end of sticks like this weirdo." She indicated Dane, who smiled. "Fall in love. Argue. Make up. Read books and write books and paint awful watercolours and do daft things because they're fun. Smile. Laugh. Make sure you stay friends with people. Don't let this stuff-" she jerked her thumb at the crystal face "-define you. It can get in your blood if you let it."

"I shall strive to do so. I hope this is just the first of many such evenings with friends," Marin said.

"Yeah," Zyan said, raising his beer bottle. "Here's to staying human."

\- o O o -

They said their goodbyes and wished each other good luck that night rather than the next morning, as Jolinda advised a very early start. Zyan's co-ordinates were an hour or so away according to the sled's nav computer: privately he reckoned it was actually only forty-five minutes or so. He set his alarm to wake him in enough time to take off and get into the general area at first light.

He was actually woken by the muffled sound of a sled taking off – Marin, he supposed, although Dane and Jolinda had said they were also leaving: they had a claim in the Brerrerton ranges that was cutting very well. The fact they'd both sustained crippling injuries there seemed not to bother them at all.

There was only a quarter of an hour or so left until his alarm, so Zyan got out of bed, folded it away, had a quick wash, double-checked he had his cutter and the crates of rose were secured in the back, did his pre-flights and then took off. He would eat on the way.

Since Marin's early takeoff had given him an extra few minutes to get there, Zyan set a slightly lower cruising speed than he had planned and then checked the weather report. It was no longer as optimistic as it had been last night – there was a weather pattern brewing up off the western shore of the continent that certainly rated some attention, but even a worst-case estimate put it eighteen to twenty-four hours away from his target area. Certainly enough time to get there, check the area out and hopefully spend a day cutting. The co-ordinates also came with some notes, which Zyan re-read:

 _Claim to be found at end of zig-zagging ravine which leads off to the west from a large circular steep-sided depression. Subject identified colour only as 'dark', but brought in mostly green during the period it is most probable the memory relates to. Cut black twice in career but probably not from this claim. Please note claim marker almost certainly erased by wind and weather in intervening time._

No indication as to how _much_ time had passed, Zyan noted. It wasn't a massive amount to go on, Zyan thought, although to be fair he'd been given worse mission briefings in his time. Certainly it was better than just 'go and find crystal', which he supposed would have been how it was done before Guildmaster Dahl's time.

Thinking of that worthy, who, if Dane and Jolinda were to be believed had insisted he have his chance to repair a sled, reminded him that he should update his personal recording – well, actually _start_ it, if truth be told. They had been insistent that it was a good idea, and he intended to follow their advice very closely.

On a whim, he elected to dispense with a normal narrative and be honest about what this was: he was talking to himself.

"Hello there Future Zyan. Welcome to the story of our life," he began, smiling to himself.

He recorded only the bare minimum of detail on Djiel – he would go back and flesh that out later. He spent most of the time on his experiences post-Shankill, and was making sure he had all the information on finding and cutting crystal recorded when the sled pinged to let him know he was entering the target area.

"Hello – looks like we're nearly over the objective. Better wrap this spent the evening around a campfire – Dane provided the wood and Jolinda brewed the beer – not _then_ , obviously, back at the cube presumably – and it was nice. Him and Jolinda are good people. Jolinda made the point quite forcefully that you have to hold on to your humanity here, but you already know that, right? Cut sensibly, hold onto your memories and personality, don't be a right wossname to people like some singers are. Seriously, I mean it. Don't let me down, Zyan of days to come. What else? Basically went to sleep, got woke up by Marin's loud takeoff, took off ourselves and now here we are, you and I. It's nearly light out there, so let's go see what we've got. Talk to me later, future me." He cut the recording and turned his attention to the sensors.

Nearly light was not daylight, so Zyan flipped on the ground scanning radar and descended to a few dozen metres above the ground, flying a spiral pattern. The topography of what was below started to assemble itself on the sled's main screen, chunk by chunk. He was currently flying above what looked like a wide curve – the edge of the large circular depression. _Depression_ didn't really do it justice – the walls were a good ten metres high. Zyan followed it until he came to a gap in it's western quadrant. Figuring this had a good chance of being the ravine he was after, Zyan decided it was time to deck the sled and continue on foot. Buzzing around a large, well-defined geographical feature like the depression on instruments alone was one thing – navigating a relatively narrow ravine was quite another, and he'd do it if he absolutely had to and not before. The perimeter of the inactive claim extended out a short distance into the depression, and there was no other claim nearby in any case.

Zyan set his sled down a safe distance from the depression wall, made himself check the co-ordinates and take another look at the weather report, and then broke out the worklight from the sled's equipment store. It would be daylight soon, and yes, his eyesight had undergone an upgrade recently but it never paid to be underprepared.

No, it didn't. Some habits died hard, and maybe they should be kept on life-support in case they were needed. Zyan assembled the stunner, checked it's charge, and evicted a power driver from it's holster on his toolbelt to make room for it.

Thus becoming, presumably, the most well-armed person on the planet, he opened the hatch and ventured forth.

It was cold outside in the early morning air, with a slight breeze ghosting in from the west bringing no extra warmth with it. The floor of the depression was mostly level and flat – Zyan sealed the sled behind him and headed for the ravine entrance, twenty metres away.

It was dim and gloomy in the ravine, which was barely wider, at it's entrance, than a sled. Zyan's instincts were telling him to shut off the torch, which would make a handy beacon for any sniper or artillery observer in visual range, and to get the stunner out instead. He suppressed this, reminded himself that the dangers on Ballybran were natural rather than artificial, and entered the ravine.

Should he go to high ground and wait for daylight, to better see where the crystal was? No – it was too narrow to afford good visibility anyway. The notes had specified the _end_ of the ravine, so he would start there and look for the crystal with his voice rather than his eyes.

The ravine floor was anything but flat and level – Zyan started to reconsider his decision to not bring the sled into it. Forward progress was made mostly by jumping from boulder to boulder – an anti-grav harness or, even better, a one-man recon skimmer would have been a great asset. Zyan had progressed no more than a hundred metres or so before there was enough light to make the torch unnecessary – he should just have waited a little longer. He secured it to his belt and continued.

Zyan's hand was halfway to his stunner before he realised why – a soft scrabbling noise from his left, which revealed itself to be Ballybran's apex predator: a rock 'crab', eight inches or so across. Zyan laughed and calmed down.

There had only been an hour or so devoted to Ballybran's fauna in the entirety of orientation, but Zyan had been interested and remembered it. The crab was quite unperturbed by his approach, seeming to know he was no threat despite his relatively brobdingnagian proportions.

"Morning," Zyan said to it.

After a cursory flick of it's antennae in Zyan's direction, the crab ignored him, absorbed instead in it's business of examining every nook and cranny it could for what really interested it: burrow worms. Zyan left it to it's morning hunt and continued in pursuit of his own quarry.

After a couple of zig-zag turns, the ravine did widen out and the going became somewhat easier, at least in places.

The crystal face was almost laughably easy to find, as it panned out. The ravine came to an end in a triangular area shaped as if a giant had carved an arrow onto the end of the meandering line of the ravine. The space was liberally scattered with boulders everywhere except in one place- just in front of a suspiciously square-sided hole in the ravine wall. The singer, whoever he or she had been, had done the bare minimum of landscaping necessary to permit easy access to the face. There was no room to land a sled: Zyan predicted a lot of lifting and carrying in his future.

He sang a C. The answering call came from the crystal face.

"Well hello there," Zyan said, and received a sussurating echo in response: but it was wrong, somehow. Fuzzy. Sharp around the edges. He frowned, and went to examine the face.

The mystery of the crystal's colour was resolved when Zyan switched the torch on again to have a good look: when he scrubbed an area free of dust and dirt with his sleeve it was a dark green in colour. The problem with the sound could be ascribed to the myriad cracks running through it: flaw.

This was, to say the least, a bit of a let down.

It wasn't uncommon, Zyan had been told – far from it, it was a perennial problem. Dane and Jolinda had said it needed to be cut away to reveal the unflawed crystal beneath. Fine: except that it could be _deep_ beneath. Or off to one side, or it could dip underground and re-emerge somewhere else – or it may be completely shattered all the way through.

"Only one way to find out." Zyan said to himself. He took a spraycan from his belt and made a large 'Z' on a nearby boulder to mark his claim – he could do a better job later, but again he was following advice from Dane – and turned back to his sled.

He returned with his cutter, some rations, and a pair of crates: he'd lashed them together with spare webbing and even managed a pair of crude shoulder straps, but it was going to be hard going on the way back even so. In Zyan's mind, a design for a small one-person skimmer with room to store a couple of crates was already taking shape.

Cutting away the flawed crystal was a thankless task – it had all the enervating, eardrum-ripping qualities of cutting unflawed crystal and more, since the pitch was soured. Zyan was happy to tolerate this in return for nice cuts of crystal which could be sold for large amounts of money, but he was less enamoured of it when what he cut was simply tossed aside.

When something dripped off his nose, he assumed it was just sweat and wiped it away. His glove came away stained with blood – holding a rag to his forehead for a second revealed that there was quite a lot of it. His wrist unit had the capability to become mirrored on demand: this showed him a large gash in his forehead. It was a clean cut that knit together, somewhat disconcertingly, even as he watched. Bits of soured crystal had been flying off as he cut it away – he hadn't given it any consideration and apparently the crystal hadn't been giving him any either. How often had this happened since he'd started cutting, and he simply hadn't noticed? He was starting to understand why Donalla was concerned over his pain threshold results.

Sleds, he knew, came equipped with a pair of work goggles. He didn't know how long the spore took to heal an eye or two, and he didn't particularly want to find out. His wrist unit chose that moment to vibrate against his skin, reminding him he was due a break.

"Decision kinda makes itself, really," Zyan murmured, slung his cutter (it seemed contra-indicated to leave the valuable item unattended, even in a deserted ravine) and headed back down the path again. He chomped an energy bar as he went, figuring he might aswell make use of the otherwise wasted time to keep his energy levels up.

After the last turning, he spotted the rock crab again. It was probing a gap in the rocks with it's pincers. After a moment, it gave up. Clearly whatever had taken shelter within was beyond it's reach. The crab waved it's pincers in an endearing display of vexation which drew a smile and a soft laugh from Zyan, despite his own frustration.

"You and me both, mate," he said to the creature, and, breaking off a small chunk of energy bar, he crouched down and offered it to the crab.

Despite centuries on the surface, man was clearly not well known to the locals yet. The crab sampled the air, picking up the scent of the bar, and then scuttled over towards Zyan's outstretched hand without fear. It made clicking sounds as it moved over the ground on it's armoured legs: _click click click CLINK click click._

Zyan frowned. That sounded wrong. He let the crab have it's treat, which it tore apart and nibbled with gusto, and stepped over it to better examine where it had just walked.

What Zyan had taken for an unremarkable slab of rock was actually a chunk of metal. It had, at some point, been driven into the side of a boulder with such force that it had been wedged there and then bent flat to the ground. This mute evidence of the fury of mach storms was enough to make Zyan shudder in a way watching a storm on a screen was unable to. A few remaining iotas of orange paint hinted that this was sled wreckage – a cursory examination of the surrounding area was enough to be positive the rest of the sled was not nearby.

So where had it come from?

The sled fragment looked to have been driven into the boulder at a fairly level angle, so it seemed safe to assume it had not blown in from above. It had blown in from the ravine entrance, then. Had the previous owner of this claim come to grief, having landed their sled at the ravine mouth as Zyan had done? No: they'd lived long enough to lose their mind over the years and then be regressed by Donalla or one of her medics, so it wasn't that. It had blown in from somewhere farther out, then.

"Interesting," Zyan said.

Back in the _That'll Do_ , he dug out the goggles and shoved them into a pocket, then double checked the claims registry for the local area. There was nothing for miles around, except the single entry for 'Jarvis, Z: inactive coordinates reassigned'. No claims had been made then released, either by the singer's death or guild decree: it didn't seem this was a popular neighbourhood. No data on crashed sleds was made available to singers, so he couldn't check to see if this was old wreckage that had long since been accounted for.

The weather was still holding clear for at least a day, and Zyan liked a mystery. He racked his cutter and closed the hatch.

Sleds had limited sensor packages: radar and nightvision were about their limit. Zyan knew how to bodge together a crude magnetometer by playing a few games with the onboard compass, though. Ballybran wasn't rich in ferrous minerals so there wasn't a lot of background interference - a couple of passes over the depression revealed there was a likely source of something metallic on the far side of the bowl. The sole distinguishing feature of the area containing the reading was a rockfall that spilled out from the edge into the bowl's floor. From a few metres up in the air it didn't look like a recent event: the rocks were scoured and weathered. It all looked very natural until Zyan caught a brief glint of something shiny. He decked the _That'll Do_ as near as he could to the rockfall, got out and started scrambling towards the source of the glint.

As he got closer, he started to experience a familiar feeling. An itch in the back of his head, and a funny feeling up and down his spine.

The glint he'd seen came from a triangle of exposed metal around a dark opening, blasted flat along with the rocks that surrounded it as if God had been busy with his celestial belt sander. Zyan crouched down on his haunches and pointed his light inside - there was just enough room to peer in.

His beam illuminated what certainly looked like the cabin of some sort of craft: he could make out a smashed console, the bent and twisted remains of a pilot's chair and a hatch at the rear, buckled open. Plasglas fragments from the viewport were scattered everywhere. There was no sign of a body. He was looking down into the cabin from the top portside corner, he realised. It certainly looked like a sled, but, as far as he could tell given that it was badly damaged, it wasn't the same model as his. It was on the level, give or take a few degrees, and completely buried save for this one corner that must, at some point, have been exposed by wind and then ripped away to embed itself in the boulder near the ravine mouth.

And, if Zyan's sensitivity was to be relied on, it was absolutely humming with black crystal.

"Shard the green," Zyan said to himself. "Reckon I'll start cutting right here."

He mentally reviewed the rules and regs on claims: you weren't allowed to just randomly claim areas on the off chance there might be crystal in the vicinity, you had to find it first. What the rules and regs didn't say, though, was whether the crystal you found had to be in a crystal face or in a crate in a crashed sled.

Zyan sprayed another Z onto a nearby boulder, then went to get his cutter. While he was in his sled he sent a preliminary signal via satellite uplink, staking his claim to this area. He'd have to ratify it when he got back, but that was just a formality.

A blade designed to cut through some of the hardest material known to man didn't have any problem slicing up ordinary rock, but it wasn't a big tool. Breaking down the boulders on top of the sled into hunks small enough for Zyan to manhandle out of the way was a bit like slicing up watermelons with a craft knife: the blade was up to the job but a _lot_ of cuts were required. Even without the necessity of singing while he cut, it was hard, exhausting work. It was a shame the guild didn't issue singers any earthmoving equipment. Half the day was gone by the time Zyan had shifted enough rock to expose the corner of a topside hatch, and then it took another two hours to clear it.

The hatch was stiff, but opened with an ungodly screech of protesting hinges after a little persuasion from a wrench, which was the closest thing to a crowbar that Zyan had equipped himself with. He was just about to shine his light downwards when his sled gave vent to a sudden piercing hoot, which caused him to jump and nearly sent him forward down the hatch. His wrist unit buzzed in sympathy as the sled relayed the signal to it: an early weather warning. The sled hooted again: it wouldn't shut up until Zyan checked the weather report in person. This he did: the storm was moving in off the sea and towards his position. He still had a good four hours before it would officially become a Bad Idea to be in the vicinity, however. Jolinda had been right: you could never completely trust the weather forecast on Ballybran.

Zyan threw some water down his neck and headed back to the other sled with a new sense of urgency. He shone his light down the hatchway to reveal crystal crates, neatly stacked and webbed into place. They hadn't been dislodged by the crash and seemed undamaged.

"Once more into the breach," Zyan muttered to himself.

He lowered his cutter down first. Even though there didn't seem to be any boulders that could roll back to block the hatchway, he didn't relish the prospect of being sealed inside this wreck without a means to cut his way out. Then – a little gingerly – he clambered down into the sled.

He met the owner almost at once, and learnt his name moments afterwards.

Zyan had seen more than his share of dead bodies, and had rationally been expecting to find one, but even so it came as a bit of a shock. In the midst of the crates, a skeleton was curled in a foetal position around a sonic cutter, one hand still curled around the controls. It was of a different design to Zyan's, larger and more unwieldy to look at, but it still bore it's owner's name on the casing: _Vortran Yanikov_.

"Sorry to drop in unannounced, CS Yanikov," Zyan said, then, because this sounded unfunny and in poor taste the moment he said it, added: "May you rest in peace."

There wasn't a lot left of Yanikov – just bones and a few scraps of cloth. The man's skull was in two pieces: broken, perhaps, by an impact? It didn't seem likely, though: no other bones were broken and the cargo compartment was inviolate.

Zyan guessed that rock crabs had got in from the shattered cabin, through the buckled inner hatch, because there was no sign of any decayed soft tissue.

The inner hatch opened with a couple of kicks – Zyan hunted around under the smashed console and located the sled's black box. If the man had family, somewhere, it might tell them how he died.

Some of Yanikov's crates were empty. Because it seemed utterly disrespectful to raid his cargo but leave the man's remains behind, Zyan used one as a makeshift coffin. He put the man's sonic cutter in there with him: he had clung onto it right to the end, so it seemed wrong to separate him from it now. The black box went in with it, then he wrestled the crate up and out of the sled and back to the _That'll Do_.

It took Zyan most of his four hours to transfer all the crates from the wrecked sled, by which time the wind had risen from a breeze to a stiff blow, it was nearly dark and a couple more weather alarms had started sounding. These could only be silenced by firing up the sled and getting it airborne. Zyan dropped down into the cabin one last time, to retrieve his cutter. He'd definitely got all the crystal, but, for some reason, still felt it's presence. He double checked the remaining crates: all empty.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. If the lode that had produced Yanikov's final haul was out there someplace, it was where he had cut, not where he'd crashed.

But.

Zyan stopped stock still. Yanikov's body had been curled up in the hold: not at the controls. He hadn't died suddenly. None of his bones had been broken – that had been quite plain. The cabin was an absolute wreck, that was true – Zyan had assumed from the impact of a crash – but what if there _hadn't_ been a crash? What if Yanikov had cut that crystal right here, then been unable to take off? The hold of a sled was better protected than the cabin. If you were trapped in a powerless sled, facing the prospect of a mach storm, wouldn't you hole up in there, surrounded by your crates for whatever extra protection they might offer, rather than stay in the relatively exposed cabin? Then, at some point, maybe in that hypothetical storm or maybe in a later one, the rocks had come down and turned the sled into a tomb.

A third alarm started up – his wrist unit started buzzing at him, too, flashing _return to base_ in red. This was no time for lengthy theorising. Zyan slung his cutter on his back and practically leapt up and out of the wreck, but he didn't run for his sled. Instead, he found himself scrambling further up the rockfall. _This is lunacy_ , he thought. _I should be airborne by now_. But he carried on. He had to know.

He was nearly up to the wall when the feeling overtook him, intense and...pure. The contents of the sled were nothing compared to this. There was black under that rockfall, a lot of it, and he'd wager it was unflawed, too. It was coming up through the concealing rockfall in _waves_.

The _That'll Do_ gave vent to a fourth alarm. The windspeed had increased, pelting Zyan with sand and gravel. He turned and hastened down the rockfall, across the floor of the depression towards his sled. The pile of empty crates outside it – there hadn't been room for all of his as well as Yanikov's – had already blown over. A lid came flying through the air and glanced off Zyan's shoulder – fortunately it wasn't heavy, and he ignored the impact. Moments later an actual crate came after it, which Zyan was able to dodge, but the wind by now was so strong that it nearly blew him over and it was getting hard to see through the lash of high-speed grit.

Zyan staggered up to his sled and pulled himself through the hatch, then slammed it shut behind him. Out of the viewport, he saw the remainder of the crates picked up and thrown around like insubstantial leaves – except that a couple of them made loud, very substantial thumps as they slammed into the _That'll Do's_ flank. The storm had descended quicker than Zyan had thought possible. The sled had already brought it's flight systems online in response to the alarms, which was just as well because it was rocking from side to side very alarmingly. If Zyan didn't take off soon, the storm was going to do it for him, and that was guaranteed to be a _very_ short flight.

He didn't rack his cutter, just moved it to the side of his body as he strapped himself in. In a real-life echo of his signature simulation move, Zyan slammed the _That'll Do_ to full power, and blasted up and out of the depression. Even with the thrust on maximum he was very nearly dashed against the wall – the proximity alarm blared alongside the weather alarms for a few milliseconds – but then he was up in the air with plenty of space around him. He pointed his nose toward the guild cube and let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

 _Too close_ , Zyan told himself. _Too close by far_. He'd come within a hair's breadth of joining Yanikov in death.

The _That'll Do_ told him that his ETA at the guild cube was two hours forty eight minutes. The meteorological readouts told him that he'd be chased by the storm the whole way.


	13. Chapter 13

Zyan had been concerned that he'd be the last sled back – in his head, they'd be holding the hangar doors for him and he'd receive a stinging reprimand from Murr. The Flight Officer's tone as he radioed ahead to inform him he was inbound, though, was completely neutral. Apparently almost literally surfing a mach storm towards the guild cube was no big thing.

"Flight control, CS Jarvis. You are cleared for landing on arrival, main bay portside lane," Murr said.

"CS Jarvis, flight control. Acknowledged main bay portside lane. Be advised I have salvaged crystal and the remains of a deceased singer on board," Zyan responded.

 _That_ gave Murr pause, but only for a moment.

"Repeat last message, CS Jarvis."

"Acknowledged main bay portside lane and be advised I have salvaged crystal and the remains of a dead singer on board," Zyan repeated.

"Acknowledged. Do you require medical assistance?" Murr asked.

"Negative on medical assistance, Control." _I'm almost positive he's got no pulse_ , Zyan didn't add.

"Acknowledged no medical assistance required, CS Jarvis. Do you have an identity for the deceased singer?"

"Affirmative. Vortran Yanikov. Been dead a while," Zyan answered.

"Acknowledged. Over and out," Murr replied.

By the end of this lengthy exchange he was almost to the bay. Fighting to keep the _That'll Do_ straight and level in the buffeting gale, he lined up on the portside lane, murmured a prayer and hoped for the best. Either he was lucky or he judged it quite well – his front skids hit the deck a bit harder than he might have liked, but he came to a halt in a respectable fashion well short of the safety line.

Zyan exhaled and patted the console. "That'll do, _That'll Do._ That'll do."

Someone was banging on the sled hatch. Zyan abruptly remembered he had a very illegal concealed weapon currently unconcealed on his hip. The hatch was opened from the outside. Zyan went cold all over for a moment, then forced himself to relax. It didn't _look_ a lot like a gun and, with luck, nobody would be looking too closely at his tool belt.

"CS Jarvis! Are you injured?" A hangar hand asked, at a shout. It was noisy inside the hangar with the wind. The baffles were up but the hangar doors remained open. _I'm not the last one in_ , Zyan thought, surprised.

Zyan shook his head. "No, just tired! Has CS Janso reported back yet?"

The hangar hand nodded. "Been back for hours. He was the first in!"

 _Figures_ , Zyan thought. Janso had taken Dane and Jolinda's warnings to heart. Which reminded him: "And CS Jolinda and CS Danelaw?"

"Don't know, CS Jarvis!" The hand answered.

"Never mind!" Zyan remembered they'd flown off to the Brerrerton ranges: there was no storm there.

Someone hauled open the main side door and people started offloading the crates. If any of them noticed that they were slightly different, they didn't say anything.

"Um, I'd be careful with those, one of them's got a skele-" Zyan started to warn them, but was interrupted by Aviczue. She was wearing offloading gear.

"Zyan, you maniac! Where the shard have you been? What's this about salvage?" She asked.

"Hi, Vitzi. Nice to see you too," Zyan replied, although he doubted he'd be audible.

"Zyan! What is your status?" Marin demanded, appearing beside her. He was still dressed in his cutting gear.

"And you, Marin," Zyan added quietly, then upped his volume. "I'm fine! Can I get out of my sled, please! I have to tell someone what's going on with those crates!"

"Oh." Aviczue and Marin moved aside. Zyan pried himself out of his seat, adjusted his cutter on his back, and jumped down. The three headed for the safety line and the sorting area.

"How come you two are down here?" Zyan asked, once they were in the relative quiet of the sorting area. "The deck hand said you got in ages ago."

"We were worried about you, you idiot!" Aviczue said. "Everyone came down here when you didn't show up when Marin did! We're taking it in shifts, now."

"Oh," Zyan replied, simultaneously touched and embarrassed and also just plain frazzled.

"Are you okay?" Aviczue put a hand on his arm, then immediately drew it back when there was a spark. "Wow! You're buzzing!"

"Crystal resonance," Marin said. "You cut crystal at your claim too long, Zyan."

"You're telling me," Zyan said. "Not doing that again. Mind you, I wasn't actually _cutting_ , to be totally fair."

They were following his crates - ahead, there seemed to be some confusion as the deck hands realised there was something out of place: they wouldn't fit on the conveyor belts. "How'd you make out at yours, by the way?"

"I have cut and brought in several crates of dark blue crys-" Marin began.

Avizcue interrupted him. "Marin, sorry, I'm totally proud of you and all that but: Zyan! Explanation! Now!"

"Okay, the co-ordinates were a washout, dark green but it was flawed. I hurt my forehead clearing it out of the way. I went to get some safety goggles from my sled, and there was this rock crab that I gave some energy bar to which showed me a bit of wreckage," Zyan explained. "Traced the wreckage to an old sled buried under a rockslide. Full of black crystal, and also the dead singer. Unclaimed area so I claimed it, transferred the crystal to the _That'll Do_ and brought CS Yanikov back with me, too. Seemed the decent thing to do," Zyan gave them a quick precis of his day.

"You have found black crystal?" Marin asked.

"Yes," Zyan answered.

"You can talk to rock crabs?" Aviczue asked, puzzled.

"What the actual-?" Zyan started to demand of her, equally puzzled, and then reviewed what he'd said. "I see, right, no, it didn't _show_ me the wreckage like 'hey giant biped thanks for the food here's something that might interest you', it scuttled across a bit of ground that went _clink_ because it was metal."

"Oh," Aviczue seemed genuinely disappointed.

There was a sudden scream from the sorting area. Zyan winced.

"Excuse me a minute," he said. "I think someone's just tried to sort CS Yanikov."

\- o O o -

Zyan spent ten minutes doing some very fast talking to pacify Chief Sorter Clodine, who stormed over thinking that a singer had assaulted one of her staff. The unfortunate sorter who had opened one of the mystery crates to investigate had, inevitably, suffered the misfortune of choosing the one containing Yanikov's remains. This had, naturally, attracted a crowd – all of whom wanted to peer inside the crate. Zyan closed the lid and stationed himself next to it.

"Look, it's not a freak show, it's a human being's mortal remains," he said – acutely aware of the illegal firearm at his hip. "Let's all show a bit of respect, yeah?"

Clodine, once she was brought up to speed on what was actually happening, evidently agreed. "Everybody back to work! I'm handling these crates personally. Nothing to see here."

She had sufficient clout to get any sorters and general gawpers to disperse, but by now several singers had also wandered over and they were not so easily dissuaded. Among them were - again, inevitably - Shecherzia and Korzac. Zyan was completely unsurprised when Vander – looking pale, drawn and desperate - also joined the group: possibly the only singer in the guild with whom he was _less_ popular.

 _What a sharding lovely evening this is turning out to be_ , Zyan thought. His only comfort was that the rest of class 1999 turned up a few moments later. He went through his explanation for them once more, this time leaving out the bit with the crab. Everyone seemed to think he was crazy enough as it was.

"So you just stuffed him in a crate?" Pharisa asked Zyan: a decision that was, in front of a group of people staring at him doubtfully, starting to look a bit creepy.

"It's what he would have wanted," Tornaz intoned. Zyan gave him a helpless look, but he just grinned. Tornaz thought this was just _hilarious_.

"I didn't _stuff_ him into anything, I _carefully and respectfully_ placed his remains in the only receptacle to hand. It seemed kinda cruel to just salvage his crystal and leave him behind," Zyan defended his actions..

"Salvage!" Korzac snorted. "Don't you know your rules and regs, rookie? There are no salvage rights!"

Zyan had abruptly had enough. This man was his equal, not his superior. He didn't have to meekly accept his scorn.

"Maybe not: doesn't mean I was going to leave this out there to get destroyed by a storm - or leave this guy's body unburied," Zyan fired back.

"Yes, shoving his bones into a crate was much more dignified," Korzac sneered.

"Yeah, sorry, the local undertaker was closed. The supply of coffins in the ranges is shockingly unreliable. I had to dispense with the funeral cortege and the twenty-one gun salute, too, it's sharding _brutal_ out there," Zyan said sarcastically. Tornaz laughed but everyone else was quiet – the situation had turned tense.

"I don't see how it's your place to make such decisions in any case," Korvac told him.

"I don't see how I'm supposed to care what you think, Korzac, but you don't hear me whining about it, do you?" Zyan replied smartly. "However, if your overwhelming concern for decorum and propriety is demanding satisfaction, I thought if someone's out there still wondering what became of him it's better that they know, and that he finally makes it home."

"Pah! Nobody's looking for him. What did you expect to gain from this? A pat on the back from the Guildmaster? You won't get to _keep_ that crystal, you know."

"Well, if the Guild that keeps a roof over our heads on the only planet we can survive on for more than a few months is in need of it then it was worth it anyway," Zyan snapped.

"You would have done better to have left the corpse in his hole and put the crystal in your own crates instead – then you might at least have _one_ decent haul of crystal to your name. You're a sentimental fool." Korzac's lip curled.

Even Shecherzia seemed to think that Korzac was out of line with this, or at least that it was time to calm the situation – she placed a restraining hand on his arm and said something in his ear. Korzac didn't seem to want to calm down – he was glaring at Zyan with murder in his eyes.

Zyan was totally fine with not calming down. Korzac had a punch in the face coming. "You cold-blooded, spiteful, mercenary piece of-" he began.

"Enough!" A new voice cut in, and there was _immediate_ silence: even Zyan brought himself up short.

The Guildmaster had arrived. "Can everyone not directly involved in this incident please be about their business, right now."

He didn't have to ask twice: almost everyone apart from Clodine evaporated - at least to a certain distance, anyway.

Aviczue, Marin, Tornaz and the others looked hesitant.

"Go on, I'll be fine. See you all later," Zyan said. Thus released, they retreated back to the same distance.

Shecherzia looked like she'd also prefer to be somewhere else, but Korzac was having none of it. "I have been insulted, Guildmaster," he said.

Guildmaster Dahl regarded him coolly. "You often find yourself to have been insulted, CS Korzac. I'm glad you seem to have found an alternative hobby to your usual choice of leisure pursuit, although habitual outrage seems to me to be an odd choice."

Korzac held his temper much better in front of the Guildmaster than he had with Zyan, but it was plainly obvious that he'd had to hold onto it very tightly indeed at those words.

"Perhaps I should have been clearer. I wish to bring a charge of discourtesy against this...newcomer," Korzac said, his tone imbuing 'newcomer' with the venom of a much less polite term.

"Is that a thing?" Zyan asked Clodine.

"I'm afraid so," Clodine answered.

"I would not advise it, my dear," Shecherzia said to Korzac, then turned to the Guildmaster. "We have had a difficult trip into the ranges, Guildmaster. My partner is frustrated and overset."

"Something I understand all too well, CS Alar," the Guildmaster answered neutrally. "Go and rest up."

"Come on, Danlo." Shecherzia pulled at Korzac's arm, but he shrugged her off.

"Guildmaster, it is my right as a Guildmember to bring a charge of-" Korzac continued, but Zyan spoke over him.

"Can I bring one against you for calling me a fool?" He asked. _Since I'm not allowed to shoot you._ "Normally I wouldn't be fussed but if it's the only game in town I might aswell play too."

Korzac looked for a moment as if he was about to launch himself at Zyan. Zyan hoped he would.

"It would seem you are both aggrieved parties," the Guildmaster said. "I would advise you both to let this matter drop."

"Happy to, sir," Zyan answered. "I hate when there's bad feeling in the workplace, but then again it _has_ been observed recently that I have a sentimental streak."

Clodine giggled, for which Zyan would be eternally grateful. The Guildmaster gave Zyan a 'don't push it' look.

Korzac inclined his head stiffly. "Very well, Guildmaster," he grated out, then turned and strode away. Shecherzia inclined her own head in an infinitely more graceful gesture and followed in his wake.

The Guildmaster sighed. "You know, CS Jarvis, when I was told you'd turned up at Shankill base asking to apply, I was advised by someone whose opinion I trust implicitly to turn you away."

"Um...sorry about that?" Zyan replied nervously.

"Don't worry, she changed her mind almost immediately. If you ever meet her, though, I'd advise you to lead with a grovelling apology for blowing up her black crystal," Dahl said.

"So noted, sir," Zyan nodded. He was fairly sure who the Guildmaster was talking about, so he didn't ask. Now he'd calmed down he was also hoping the Guildmaster would either depart or dismiss him so he could go and hide the stunner, so he kept his responses short.

No such luck. "The Guild thanks you, CS Jarvis, for bringing in this black crystal. CS Korzac is correct that the standard rules and regs do not cover salvage carried out by singers – I'll have to give this some thought, but I'll be damned if you don't receive _something_ for your efforts. Thank you for doing the decent thing and bringing back the deceased singer. Is he in there?" The Guildmaster looked at the crate Zyan was still guarding.

"CS Yanikov's remains are in here, yes sir. Along with his sonic cutter and the black box from his sled," Zyan told him.

"Is there anything apart from crystal in any of the _other_ crates?" Dahl asked, somewhat warily. "And just 'Guildmaster' will do, I'm not your commanding officer."

Zyan shook his head. "No, Guildmaster." He paused. "Or if there is _I_ didn't put it in there, anyway," Zyan qualified.

"Thank you. Clodine, can you get this sorted ASAP? Let me know immediately if there's a five-shaft set," the Guildmaster said.

"Will do, Lars," Clodine answered, somewhat informally.

"There isn't," Zyan said.

The Guildmaster turned back to him. "You've looked?"

"No, but I'm positive. There's nothing bigger than the cuts I sorted a few days back, from Borton's haul. Couldn't say how I know, but I _know_. There's plenty more black crystal at the claim site, though. I'd bet credits to crumpets there's a big vein beneath the rockfall that buried the sled, and I'd bet it's unflawed at the same odds, too," Zyan answered. This information did not go unnoticed among the singers still loitering nearby.

"Yanikov's sled hadn't crashed?" Dahl asked.

"I thought so, to begin with, but I found Yanikov in the hold, not behind the controls. He was curled up in there, surrounded by crates, holding onto his cutter. He-"

Zyan suddenly realised _why_ Yanikov's skull had been cleft in two, and remembered the position of the cutter, the skeletal hand still on the controls...

"Jarvis?" The Guildmaster asked.

A mix of pity and fear crossed Zyan's features. "He died quick, at least. I'm pretty sure he took his own life."

How terrible, how awful must the experience of being caught in a mach storm be, that taking your own cutter to yourself was preferable?

"It's not unheard of," the Guildmaster said, gently. "Carry on."

Zyan was glad to. "I had a shufty at the valley wall before I left, and I could _feel_ the crystal, and a lot of it too-" Zyan started to explain, but the Guildmaster held up his hand to stop him.

"Okay, hold up Jarvis. First things first. You've claimed the site?"

"Yes, Guildmaster."

"To be clear: you've registered it aswell as just marking it."

"Yep."

At this news, the intent expressions which a number of the listening singers had been wearing were replaced by expressions of disappointment, chagrin or even sullen anger.

"Say nothing else about this to anyone. This isn't something that should be discussed in public," the Guildmaster said.

"Pretty sure my friends aren't going to accept that as an excuse, Guildmaster," Zyan said wryly, indicating the others, still hovering protectively nearby. "Reckon I'm due a lynching if I don't give 'em all the juicy details pretty much as soon as we've got the first round in."

The Guildmaster smiled. "I can tell you've been spending a lot of time with Dane. Okay, tell your friends if you must, but I'd advise you to talk quietly in a corner of the common room - and keep the co-ordinates to yourself. Go have a drink, talk to your class, and then go and get yourself cleaned up – spend a half hour in the radiant tank, that'll bring the resonance down by a few hertz. Then I'll want to see you in my office at-" he checked his wrist unit - "midnight, let's say."

"Um, am I in trouble?" Zyan asked nervously.

"Definitely, CS Jarvis," the Guildmaster confirmed, with a wry smile. "Not with _me_ , but you're definitely in trouble."

\- o O o -

In the end, Zyan ended up following these instructions in reverse order. After breaking the stunner down into it's component parts and stashing it, with a huge sigh of relief, he had a shower first before going to the common room, and skipped the radiant tank. Thirty seconds of watching it gloop into the bath was enough to convince him it wasn't something he wanted up against his skin under any circumstances. He headed down to the common room instead, where he once again related what had befallen him earlier.

"Tell me again about the crab," Tornaz asked him, afterwards. "Are you sure it wasn't trying to tell you there were some children trapped down the old mine?" Pharisa stifled a giggle.

"Will you leave off about the crab?" Zyan replied, shaking his head.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Zyan, I'm still very disappointed with you," Aviczue said. "You get a sled full of black crystal out of the bargain, and the crab gets a few crumbs from an energy bar. It's just not fair."

"He's exploiting the natives for profit," Tornaz agreed.

"Just wait until it tells all it's friends," Hollin added.

"You'll have the worst case of crabs in the history of Ballybran," Tornaz chipped in.

"The crab thing isn't going away any time soon, is it?" Zyan asked in a resigned tone.

"They will form an army to hunt him down," Colina predicted.

"Yes!" Marin announced. "In fact-"

He paused, frowning. Everyone waited.

"They will use a pincer movement!" Marin finished, and leaned back in his chair.

Everyone laughed. Aviczue gave him a hug: "Well done, Marin."

Zyan raised his glass to him. "Progress, man. We're proud of you. Why don't you get me off the hook and tell us about _your_ trip?"

Marin did so. He had found a rich vein of dark blue crystal at his site, with only minimal flaw to clear away. The four crates he had brought in had netted him over a thousand credits, compared to the mere hundred and seventeen he'd received for his _six_ crates of rose. Zyan figured he could expect a similar amount for his first trip. It wasn't much to show for nearly getting himself killed.

Marin was expounding upon his plans to return with Aviczue after the storm had passed, which Meteorology were confident would happen sometime tomorrow. Zyan's wrist unit buzzed – it was ten minutes to midnight.

"Gotta go," he said, finishing his Yarran beer. "The Guildmaster wants to see me. He _says_ I'm not in for a bollocking but I've got my doubts, to be honest."

"See you tomorrow for breakfast?" Pharisa asked, as he stood up.

"If I'm up, definitely. If I'm alseep, definitely not. Night, all," Zyan waved and headed to the lifts.

On the way he passed close to a table where Korzac, Vander and Shecherzia were deep in conversation. Zyan's new and improved hearing definitely picked out the words 'follow him' from their conversation – which came as no surprise, if Zyan was being honest with himself. From what he'd gathered of how certain singers operated, a certain amount of sly claim jumping seemed to be par for the course and was the root cause of the paranoia which affected the same subset of singers.

Vander looked up guiltily as he walked by. Korzac shot him one of his patented poison stares; Shecherzia was the complete mistress of her body language and facial expressions, and communicated nothing whatsoever. Zyan used his middle finger to scratch a fictitious itch on his temple as he went by, and smirked. Childish, but he couldn't stop himself.

He hadn't been to the levels of the guild cube devoted to administration and business matters, yet, and found them disappointingly quotidian. The main admin level was largely open plan, apart from a few offices belonging to various senior figures. This late at night, the desks and terminals were deserted, but a large screen on the wall displayed various crystal and commodity prices as well as a galactic news feed. Djiel was no longer headline news, it seemed. The excitement now was all about a missing colony ship, trade talks with the latest alien race to be contacted and a FSP rep who'd been caught in a wearisomely predictable sex scandal.

"Have you come to ask me out for that drink, CS Jarvis?" A voice called as a door swished open. It was Alenda, on her way out of the office marked 'Chief of Legal'. She had no trouble identifying him despite being several metres away.

"I'm ashamed to say I haven't," Zyan answered, feeling quite proud of himself for not being surprised. "The Guildmaster wants to see me."

"Pity., Alenda remarked, wending her way without any appreciable difficulty through the desks toward him. "I hear you've had quite the dramatic day."

"That's putting it mildly," Zyan said with a rueful smile. "They told me this was a dangerous occupation but I didn't expect it to kick in quite as quickly as this."

"Glad to see you made it back in one piece, anyway. I'd be out a drink, otherwise," Alenda smiled, pausing next to him. The clock on the display ticked over to midnight. "You've changed," she remarked.

"At the stroke of midnight?" Zyan asked.

"Nothing so cliched," Alenda shook her head. "In the ranges. People always feel different after they've been out for the first time."

This surprised Zyan, as well it might. "How can you tell?"

Alenda smiled again. "Now _that_ information I _might_ consent to impart over the _second_ drink. You'd best go in."

"I suppose I better had. 'Night, Senior Counsel," Zyan inclined his head.

Alenda inclined hers back, once again intriguing Zyan as to how, exactly, she'd known he'd made that gesture.

"Goodnight, CS Jarvis." She headed for the lifts, again navigating the mass of desks and chairs with no problem whatsoever. She didn't even have her stick with her, this time – it was apparent she didn't need it. Zyan knew that some blind people were able to use echolocation to find their way around, but Alenda seemed to take it to an entirely new level.

"You're staring again, CS Jarvis," she called over her shoulder.

 _Shards_ , Zyan thought. _Busted_.

"I heard that," Alenda said. Zyan was left open mouthed, as the lift doors closed behind her.

Well, whether the Guild's senior lawyer had pyschic powers or not, he was still late for the boss. Zyan hurried over to the largest office door and pressed the entry control.

"Come on through, CS Jarvis." It was a woman's voice that issued from the speaker. The Crystal Singer? He'd find out in a moment.

The Guildmaster's office had an ante-chamber with a couple of desks – the far door had been left ajar. Zyan knocked on it.

"Come in, please," The Guildmaster, this time.

Zyan entered, more than a little nervously. It wasn't much of a stretch that the 'person whose opinion he trusted implicitly' Guildmaster Dahl had alluded to earlier was CS Ree, _the_ Crystal Singer with Portentious Capitals everyone seemed to actually manage to somehow pronounce when they spoke of her. The formidable woman whose black crystal had been destroyed in the raid that made 'Black Zyan' infamous. He could only hope she was willing to let bygones be bygones now that he was only CS Jarvis, just another crystal singer among many.

The Guildmaster and his partner stood up as Zyan came in. She was a tall, regal woman with an ageless quality to her. She had dark hair and was very beautiful. Whatever normal crystal singers had that set them apart, she had it and then some. Even next to the Guildmaster, who was a charismatic man and a natural leader, she stood out as something special.

"Zyan – can I call you Zyan?" The Guildmaster said, offering his hand. They shook, and then the Guildmaster indicated the woman. "This is my partner, Killashandra Ree."

Killashandra extended her hand with a smile. Zyan extended his gingerly.

"I don't bite, Zyan," she said, as they shook.

"I am really, _really_ sorry about the Djiel black crystal thing, ma'am," Zyan told her.

"Please, Zyan, don't worry about it. It would show a serious lack of perspective on my part to be enraged about the fate of a piece of crystal in the middle of a humanitarian crisis," Killashandra told him. "Please, sit down. Can I get you a drink?"

"No, ma'am, I'm good thanks." Zyan sat down, and they followed suit.

"Call me Killashandra, please," she said.

"Yes ma'a-, um, Killashandra," Zyan nodded.

"And I'm Lars," the Guildmaster added. "Thanks for coming up so late. We keep strange hours, up here, sometimes."

"Particularly with the current business," Zyan essayed.

The Guildmaster smiled. "There's no such thing as a secret in the Guild, I sometimes suspect," he said, then turned serious. "Yes – the Guild is currently facing some difficulties. I can't tell you much, I'm afraid – but since it's about to have a direct impact on your career within the Guild, please believe me when I say it's very serious."

"I understand. Serious enough only a five-shaft cut of black will sort it?" Zyan asked.

"You're quite the sharp one, aren't you Zyan?" Killashandra said.

"I didn't think you were after idiots joining the Guild, ma'a-, Killashandra," Zyan said, somewhat ruining the effect he was going for with the stumble over her name.

"And yet we seem to end up with more than our share," she said with a wry twist of her lips.

"Yes – I feel I ought to apologise on behalf of CS Korzac," the Guildmaster cut in, deftly taking them away from the subject of the 'current business'. "He's not the easiest of people to get along with under ordinary circumstances-"

Killashandra snorted.

"-but he has, at the moment, got an extra level of stress-"

"Lars, why don't _I_ handle this?" Killshandra cut in, and didn't wait for an answer. "What I'm about to tell you is not to be shared with anyone. Okay?"

"Okay," Zyan nodded.

"Do I need to tell you how very, very miffed I will be with you if I find out you've done so anyway?" Killashandra asked sweetly.

"No, ma'am," Zyan said. She was definitely, he decided, someone to be addressed as ma'am, no matter what she said.

"Good. Well then - on his latest holiday with CS Alar, Korzac was an even bigger idiot than usual, and he ran up some hefty gambling debts. He now has to find a lot of credit in order to pay them. We've told him he should try co-ordinate cutting, but he has refused. He was previously cutting on a black site – which, despite what he says, I believe CS Alar found – but it was destroyed by storm: I'd have some sympathy, if he'd come _back_ to Ballybran to find his claim bollixed. However he knew about this _before_ he went off-planet and went anyway," Killashandra explained, with a dark look that spoke volumes about her opinion of such behaviour.

"That puts a few things into perspective," Zyan said. "Besides him being completely foul, that is. Pretty much the moment she saw me Shecherzia was trying to get me to put my name to some kinda lawsuit designed to screw money out of the guy who made those films."

"As partners, his debts are her debts," Killashandra said.

"Why does she put up with him? Not that it's any of my business but she seems so far out of his league that he'd normally need a telescope to be able to even see her."

"You may have noticed that Shecherzia isn't the easiest person to get on with either," Killashandra said.

"True that."

" _However_ , " Dahl cut in. "another reason might be that she's also like you – she had a Milekey transition and she's sensitive to black. Donalla explained about thrall to you?"

"Yes – and if what she said wasn't enough to put the fear of God into me about it, Dane and Jolinda's warnings certainly were," Zyan said.

"Good – all three of them know what they're talking about. Shecherzia can't cut alone – it would be dangerous for her," Dahl said.

"Very dangerous. Black thralls easier and deeper than any of the other shades, and those who've had a Milekey transition and are sensitive to black are even more at risk," Killashandra said, and it looked like she spoke from experience. "If I could, I'd make it a rule that people like us never cut alone," she added, which confirmed it.

"So now you know why Korzac was so angry with you, and why Shecherzia might be choosing to stay with him despite his faults," Dahl said. "Which kind of leads into the next subject, which is the black you brought in, and the site where you found it."

He pressed a button on his desk, and a screen came to life behind him.

"We got this from the black box you took from Yanikov's sled – which was very good thinking, by the way. Yanikov sung his last crystal 250 years ago, which is the only reason we've got access to _these_." Video of a singer cutting at a _very_ large vein of black crystal filled the screen.

"Wow, he must have been one of the first singers!" Zyan exclaimed, amazed at the time that had passed since the man's death.

"Nowhere near," Killashandra shook her head. "He would have been an established singer when I joined the Guild, athough I never met him."

Zyan took another look at Killshandra's unlined face and erect posture.

She smiled. "Get used to it, Zyan, I'm about average for a senior member."

"Sorry, ma'am," Zyan said. He wondered how long Alenda had been a member.

"Sleds in Yanikov's day still came equipped with external cameras which recorded data to the black box, a practice which has since been discontinued for reasons of outright paranoia. Singers were afraid another singer would hack into the box and figure out where their claims were. Impossible, of course, but try explaining that to some people." Dahl shrugged. "Does this picture look familiar?"

Zyan was about to shake his head, but then, on further examination, realised that it was.

"That overhang he's standing underneath? I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that's what I was scrambling all over and cutting off the top of his sled," Zyan said.

Dahl nodded. "Thought so. You were right – there _is_ a lot of black crystal at that site. If I was to fast forward this video, we'd see Yanikov scramble back into his sled just in time to be trapped in there by a rockfall, but I don't think we need to see that. However, it's possible that same rockfall has protected the vein from the weather for the past two and a half centuries. You're sure it felt unflawed?"

"Yes," Zyan said. "Positive. The green face I was clearing before I found Yanikov was flawed. The black didn't feel anything like that. It was... _true_ sounding _._ Buried, but intact."

"And I'm more than happy to take your word on it," Dahl said, and then his expression turned dark. "This means I've got some good news and bad news for you."

Zyan was silent, but went cold inside. Had he broken some regulation he had failed to properly learn when he claimed the site?

"First, the good news. The Guild officially considers the black crystal you brought in to be _yours_. You'll pay the usual tithe, but that still means you've just earned 72,544 credits."

Zyan's eyes went wide. "Wow. Thanks, Lars. That's amazing." Seventy thousand credits and change was a _lot_ of money.

"The bad news, however, is that I can't let you cut any more from that site," the Guildmaster said.

Zyan was taken somewhat aback. "I don't get it. I've claimed it. It's mine."

The Guildmaster sighed.

"I'm sorry, Zyan, I really am. If the Guild didn't have an overwhelmingly urgent need for black crystal right now I wouldn't do this, but it does. I'm invoking Clause 13. If you've learned your lessons well, you'll be able to recall the wordi-"

"In times of planetary emergency or a threat to the existence of the Guild the Guildmaster may, subject to the unanimous approval of all members of Chief rank, lawfully revert the ownership of any claim to the Guild," Zyan repeated instinctively. "It's never been invoked before."

"And I'm only invoking it now because of overwhelming need," the Guildmaster said.

"You're taking my claim, aren't you? What's the planetary emergency, Guildmaster? Have we got pirates in orbit demanding black crystal?"

"Your anger is entirely understandable, Zyan. You _will_ be compensated," the Guildmaster said placatingly.

"I think CS Jarvis is the correct form of address, is it not, Guildmaster?" Zyan fired back.

The Guildmaster's eyes hardened. "I do not _want_ to do this."

"I can well imagine," Zyan told him flatly. "When word gets around the commons that you're nabbing claims from _active_ singers as well as inactive ones, the old guard are going to go ballistic. I wonder how best to word it for the maximum outrage? Probably best to just tell Korzac and leave it to him – he does outrage really well."

" _That's enough!"_ The Guildmaster snapped. "You will _not_ be spreading this around the common room."

"Oh, I think you'll find I will be," Zyan retorted.

"Both of you stop!" Killshandra said sharply. "Honestly, Lars, if there was a worse way to broach this subject I can't think of it. 'Good news and bad news' indeed. And as for you," she turned to Zyan. "Give him a moment to explain, CS Jarvis. I don't like this either, and half an hour before you came in here I was trying to argue him out of it, but there _is_ a compelling reason for this decision."

Zyan wondered if this 'interruption' to suggest that the Guild's second-ranking member was at least partly on his side had been arranged to mollify him, but fell grudgingly silent.

The Guildmaster drew a breath and expelled it again. "I _have_ to have a five shaft cut of black, and it needs to be soon," the Guildmaster said. "I can't divulge why, but trust me when I say that it's the kind of situation that Clause 13 was written to cover. You are an inexperienced singer, but more than that – and this is crucial – you have no partner. It'd be tantamount to murder to send you out to cut black on your own. You'd thrall, and without a partner to slap you out of it, a storm would come, and you'd be killed. This is a very big face, and as soon as it's exposed again, it's in danger from storms. A partnership is needed to go there and cut: two pairs of hands will cut quicker than one, and the more that's cut, the better the chances that a five-shaft set will be produced. I really, truly regret this decision Zyan. It's an awful thing to do to a singer who's worked as hard as you have to get your chance – Killa and I were genuinely impressed at how you and your friends worked together to repair a sled so you could go out with Dane and Jo. The Guild needs that kind of team spirit if it's going to survive in the long run."

Zyan had forgotten that the Guildmaster had intervened on his behalf with the Flight Officer, and the knowledge spurred him to calm down a little.

"So: I'm sorry, but I have no choice. To compensate you, I'm going to award you 30% of the value of the first haul from this claim – that's what normally goes to the inactive singer whose claim is re-assigned. It's likely to be a _lot_ of credits. What's more, as soon as you've found a partner you can sing well with, I'll give you priority for inactive black co-ordinates, and you'll continue to have priority until one of them cuts well enough to be considered a replacement for _this_ claim," the Guildmaster said. "It is _not_ my intention that you suffer from this, it really isn't."

"That does sound like a very good deal," Zyan nodded, thinking: _team spirit. Hmm_. An idea was blossoming in his head. "I have a counter-proposal. Can you bring up the weather report for the Milekey range on there?" He indicated the screen.

"Sure, but-" The Guildmaster started to say.

"Zyan heard _you_ out, Lars. Return the courtesy." Killashandra pressed a couple of buttons on the desk herself, and brought up the forecast.

"Yes, of course, Sunny. You're right, as usual. Zyan?"

"Seven, maybe eight more hours until this blows over," Zyan noted, pointing to the swirl of the storm on the screen. "Then anywhere up to five days of clear weather over my claim."

"Or maybe as few as three," Lars said. "And it might take that long for a pair of singers just to clear the rockfall away, even with exoskeletal suits to help with the heavy lifting. We can't use blasting charges close to the exposed face: it might damage the crystal."

"How many exo assist suits have we got?" Zyan asked.

"A dozen at least – but singers never use them," Lars answered.

"So you haven't got anyone trained anyway," Zyan mused. "Right. Here's my idea. You let me have the claim for 48 hours after the storm clears. I will not cut there alone."

"I didn't think you had someone you were considering as a partner," Lars said.

"I don't – but nevertheless I won't cut alone, I promise you. If, in that time, I haven't brought in a five shaft cut of black crystal that passes muster then I will voluntarily release the claim to the guild - with no expectation of further compensation - and you can send in who you like. The face will be cleared by that point – with no blasting necessary - so even in the worst case scenario I'll have saved you a job that would've taken them that long to do anyway and you've lost nothing," Zyan said.

Lars' eyes narrowed. "What are you thinking?"

Zyan twisted his lips. "I haven't got all the details worked out yet. Let's call it a different approach. You're all about that, right? I'll stay within the rules and regs, of course. Give me my two days, Guildmaster."

"Deal." It was Killashandra that spoke. Lars turned a quizzical look on her.

"You don't want to invoke Clause 13, Lars – it felt wrong to both of us and Zyan's absolutely right about how most singers will react to it. Give Zyan his chance: if he comes through we get what we want. If he fails, we get a cleared claim ready for cutting, no time lost, and in either case we don't have to invoke that fardling clause," she said. "One thing though: you may not expect further compensation if your idea doesn't work out, but you _will_ still get it."

Lars still looked to be in two minds as he considered for a moment, but then nodded to himself.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you won't do anything to endanger yourself or the crystal – that includes cutting by yourself - and you won't break any rules and regs," the Guildmaster said.

Zyan looked at him as requested. "My word on it."

"Okay, Zyan, you've got your 48 hours. Go do what you have to do," the Guildmaster said.

\- o O o -

Zyan became, almost at once, incredibly busy.

First things first – he contacted the duty Equipment Officer. Dahl's 'dozen at least' exo assist suits turned out to be nine, but they were reasonably lightweight and folded down to a manageable size. Zyan told him he was planning a training exercise in order to familiarise singers with their usage and that he'd received permission from the Guildmaster. This moderately untruthful approach secured him the use of seven of the nine suits, along with portable lighting, which the Equipment Officer undertook to be delivered to the hangar in time for the weather clearing late tomorrow. Then he put in a request with Flight for his sled to be prepped.

"Oh, almost forgot, Marin – CS Janso - asked me to ask you to prep his, too. He's busy quote-unquote celebrating," Zyan added in a conspiratorial tone. Flight gave a soft grunt of laughter and added Marin's sled to the prep queue.

"How's the sled commissioning coming along, by the way? Any chance of me earning a few creds extra fixing one up ready for when the storm clears?" Zyan asked, in what he hoped was a casual manner.

Murr laughed. "From what I hear you don't need the credit!"

"What can I say, I like to have a backup plan," Zyan said.

"Well, there might be, to be honest – we still haven't got any sleds prepped for new singers. They're not even close. When I'm through my current backlog, I'll get back to you if you're still interested."

 _Shards_ , Zyan thought. This was not ideal – not a dealbreaker, but not great. Out loud, he said. "Okay, Murr. Thanks."

This done, he messaged Hollin, who answered somewhat blearily.

"Zyan? Is there a problem?" He asked.

"Maybe not, if your reputation is as fearsome as the Guild's senior counsel reckons it is," Zyan told him.

"You've lost me, I'm afraid," Hollin replied, confused.

Zyan told him the plan. "Will that work?"

"I believe it just might," Hollin answered, thoroughly engaged.

"Reckon you can pull a nightshift for us knocking up a contract? You don't have to tie a bow round it, it's just got to be able to occupy the Guild legal team long enough for us to get some results," Zyan said.

"Leave it with me and the large amount of coffee I'm about to start drinking," Hollin answered.

"Thanks, Hollin. You're a treasure. Keep me informed."

That done, Zyan left messages with the rest of class 1999 asking them to meet him in his quarters before breakfast, and went to grab a few hours sleep – his bedtime reading was the operator's manual for the exo assist suits. He needed to be reasonably expert in their use, and soon.

\- o O o -

A side benefit of the spore seemed to be the ability to function on minimal sleep: a good thing, since the resonance Zyan had picked up during the day made it difficult for him to get any. He started to think he should re-evaluate his opinion of the radiant fluid when his alarm woke him after only 2 hours sleep.

Hollin turned up a few minutes before everyone else, with a very nice aluminium finish briefcase that had to be a relic of his previous life. Tasked with a legal problem, he seemed to be a different man from the haltingly shy recruit: but then again his transition seemed to have given him new self-confidence, too.

"Are we good?" Zyan asked him as he handed him coffee.

"We're good," Hollin confirmed, with a grin.

The others arrived in short order. Zyan handed out coffee. It was a bit crowded with all 13 of them in there, but he didn't want to have the discussion he was about to have out in the common room where anyone could overhear.

"Okay, Zyan, what's this all about?" Aviczue asked.

"It better not be anything to do with crabs," Tornaz said.

"It's not," Zyan said. He'd already checked the weather report. The storm was clearing fast so he'd have to make this quick. "This is going to sound almost as insane, though, and we have limited time to come to a decision, so listen up."

He cleared his throat. "Last night the Guildmaster told me he was going to invoke Clause 13 and revert my claim to the guild."

There were gasps and responses of angry sympathy. Zyan held up a hand.

"Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction, too, but let me fill in the backstory a bit. The Guildmaster wasn't just being high handed: he made me a very good offer of compensation. The Guild is facing some sort of serious problem, and they desperately need the black crystal there - crucially they need a five shaft set. Nothing else will do."

"A five shaft set would power an interplanetary network at least, maybe even an intersystem one. I wonder where it's needed for?" Pharisa mused.

Zyan could remember 'chalice' being mentioned, but whether that was a star system, a company, a person or just a codeword, he didn't know, so he left that part out.

"I don't know – it's hush-hush – but things seem to be pretty desperate. There's maybe a week of decent weather in which to excavate the face and cut, and once it's exposed the claim is vulnerable to storm damage, so the Guildmaster wanted a pair of singers, like Dane and Jolinda, to cut it. Two pairs of hands are better than one – the more cutting going on, the more chance of a five shaft set coming out of that face. But I think we can do better than that. I remembered a conversation I had with you, Aviczue." Zyan said.

"You did? What conversation?" Aviczue asked, surprised.

"Back before transition, we were talking about how you didn't want us all to be split up once we became singers. You liked being part of a team. And I said-"

"That maybe we could all become partners, cut together and share the profits!" Aviczue finished for him, as she remembered.

"Boom." Zyan pointed at her. "Exactly. I've talked the Guildmaster into giving me 48 hours to get him his five shaft cut before I give up the claim. There's no way I can do this alone."

"Alone it would be extremely dangerous," Marin agreed. "The risk of thrall would be too much."

"Exactly. But," Zyan paused – this was the controversial bit. "With thirteen of us working together as a team, just like when we fixed up the _That'll Do_ , we stand a very good chance."

This produced a mixed reaction – some of the group were immediately enthused, others somewhat _con_ fused. "All thirteen of us? Is there room?"

"It's a very big crystal face: I've seen video of it from the old sled's black box. Working together we can clear the site quicker, cut in several places on the face once it's cleared, rotate singers when we need a rest rather than stopping work – we've got enough people that we could work in shifts and keep the cutting going round the clock. I think we could cut an insane amount of black in 48 hours, maybe even manage this magical five shaft set," Zyan said, emphasising his points with cutting gestures.

"Is that even allowed?" Rhanui asked, then knit her brows as she reviewed her knowledge of what the Guild permitted. "There's nothing about teams in the rules and regs, I think."

"Way ahead of you, Rhan. You all remember that Hollin said he was a lawyer before? Well, turns out he wasn't just _any_ lawyer: the Guild's Senior Counsel told me our friend here was a next-level contract lawyer with a devastating reputation that kept other, lesser briefs up at night with the sweats."

All eyes turned to the now-not-so-ex-lawyer, who seemed not a bit bothered by the attention.

"That's broadly correct if somewhat dramatic," Hollin confirmed, with a twinkle in his eye. "Maybe not the part about giving other lawyers _actual_ nightmares, but believe me when I say I know what I'm talking about."

"The rules and regs we've learned are a simplified version of certain sections of the Heptite Guild charter," Hollin continued. "I've been over the relevant sections and they all talk about 'partners' and 'partnerships'. Frankly it was very poorly constructed: standards must have been extremely lax in the early days of the Guild. Nowhere is a number mentioned - it is simply commonly accepted that singing partnerships are only two people. This has no legal force. The standard contract that crystal singers sign when they cut duo can be signed by _any number_ of singers and be equally binding and equally defensible in a Guild tribunal – and indeed an FSP court, should the need arise. To sum up, if some or all of us choose to enter into a partnership all together, the Guild must respect it," Hollin said with authority. "I have the relevant documents here."

"Great: the law is on our side. Hollin, you're a genius. Zyan, you're an idiot: we've only got two sleds between us," Tornaz pointed out to Zyan.

"We can manage with two," Zyan replied. "One for equipment and crates, one for personnel. It'll be cosy, yeah, and we need to make sure we play no games whatsoever with storm warnings, but it's doable. Once we're on site and cutting, one sled will shuttle everyone's crates back to the cube while the other will _always_ remain at the claim as our base of operations and escape vehicle. If things go well, I'm pretty sure I can talk the Guildmaster into loaning us a transport sled or two to make things a bit easier."

"I thought we had to be shepherded by an experienced singer first," Q'Tonisa said.

"Marin and I can bring you up to speed," Zyan said. "If Marin is in, obviously."

Everyone was now seriously thinking this over.

"Is this safe?" Pharisa asked. "Honestly. I know you're enthusiastic about this, Zyan – and a share in a black crystal claim is not to be sniffed at – but really, is this safe? You and Marin are used to doing risky things. Aviczue, too – the rest of us not so much."

"Honestly? Yes, there are risks. There's not much redundancy built into this – we'll be reliant on only one sled while the other one is off site. There'll be a lot of us in one sled at a time – if we have a malfunction everyone on board will be in danger, not just the pilot. Also, well, we'll have to hold onto the crate webbing during flight. As for other risks? Exactly what we'd face on our own or in pairs, and no more." Zyan answered.

"For me, the risk is acceptable. I will instruct the Flight Officer to prepare my sled," Marin stated decisively.

"Thanks man," Zyan told him.

"He's already told Flight to prep your sled," Aviczue told Marin.

"How did you know?" Zyan was surprised.

"Because I _know_ you," Aviczue said. "I'm in, by the way. _Someone_ has to ride herd on you and make sure you don't get carried away."

"By crabs, no doubt. I'm in too," Tornaz said, and Pharisa agreed.

"And me," Rhanui said – and then everyone was agreeing.

"Awesome," Zyan said. "Thanks, everyone. Hollin, have you got the paperwork?"

Hollin opened his briefcase and deployed a squad of 13 legal agreements – which were on data tablets, rather than paper. There was a certain amount of confusion making sure that everyone had verified each tablet, but then everyone had one and the deal was done.

"All that remains is what we call ourselves," Hollin said.

"Do we need to do that right away?" Zyan asked.

"Well, no, just a list of our names will do. It'll be a bit of a mouthful, though. Something snappier like 'The Ballybran Crystal Syndicate Number 1' would be better," Hollin ventured.

"That's not particularly snappy, Hol," Colina patted his arm with a smile.

"We'll come up with something later," Zyan said. "Right now I need everyone to get their cutters and working gear for themselves – you all know where Supply is. If there's any time left after that, we'll start training with exo assist suits. The storm is clearing, though, and as soon as Flight is happy to clear departures we need to be out of here."

Everyone started filtering out, except Marin and Aviczue, that latter of whom turned to Zyan.

"Figured out how you're going to get eleven extra people past the Flight Officer and into your sled, yet?" She asked.

"Marin's sled," Zyan said. "They're rated for up to twenty passengers, in an emergency. We're not breaking any rules." Zyan told her.

"Maybe not, but the Flight Officer's going to cut up fine about it, and you know it," Aviczue pointed out.

"Yeah. We're going to need a distraction. That's why you'll be going in Marin's sled, not mine," Zyan stated.

"You're planning something devious, aren't you?" Aviczue narrowed her eyes.

"I'm simply going to be using the resources available to me," Zyan said, with a smile. "Nothing more."

\- o O o -

There was a certain amount of curiosity when Marin and Zyan loaded the _That'll Do_ up with the exo assist suits and a brace of worklights. Zyan trotted out the training exercise excuse again to a couple of hands who asked what they were about – this seemed to satisfy them, but in reality they were probably just used to singers being weird and erratic.

Almost every singer who'd been driven in by the storm was heading out again, including Shecherzia, Korzac and Vander. They waited in or by their sleds, eyeing the others warily when they weren't glued to the met display. The Flight Officer was keeping an equally wary eye on them: any disturbances or altercations would be _his_ problem.

The eleven remaining members of class 1999 waited near the entrance to the sorting area: close to Marin's sled, but not so close as to arouse suspicion. They wore normal clothes and weren't carrying their cutters, for the same reason – no, they were just there to see their friends off, nothing wrong with that, we won't be in the way. What nobody else knew was that not all of the crates in Marin's sled were empty: their gear was already stashed within.

The met display announced clear skies – singers were free to depart.

Zyan nodded at Marin. Marin nodded back.

"Hey, Korzac," Zyan said, wandering over to where the trio still stood.

"What do _you_ want?" Korzac asked.

"Just a quick word. See, 'cos I'm so new, I've forgotten a few of the rules and regs relating to claim jumping. You're an experienced singer, though. Thought I'd ask you to remind me about them," Zyan said.

Shecherzia gave a soft snort of amusement. Vander just looked terrified. Korzac, bless him, took the bait as completely and unhesitatingly as Zyan could have wished.

"What are you trying to imply, you arrogant little stripling!" Korzac demanded loudly.

Everyone looked over at them. The Flight Officer came to the window of his booth to see what the disturbance was.

"I'm not implying anything, Korzac. Can't a guy ask for help from his elders and betters round here?" Zyan held up his hands. "I just thought it'd be something you'd know a lot about."

"You'll take that back this instant or so help me I'll-" Korzac snarled.

"Danlo, calm down!" Shecherzia said, grabbing his arm.

The altercation had _everyone's_ attention, now – well, almost everyone. The eleven members of class 1999 weren't interested in it at all as they nipped unobtrusively across the short distance of hangar to Marin's sled and piled in through the door.

"Okay, okay," Zyan backed away. "I didn't mean anything by it." _Except to get you to kick off, which you so obligingly did._

Marin's sled was taking off – somewhat ponderously - as the Flight Officer turned his attention back to his primary responsibility. Zyan returned to the _That'll Do_ and climbed in.

"CS Jarvis, flight control. Requesting permission to take off," Zyan radio'ed.

"Granted, CS Jarvis. _Please_ don't go near Korzac again, at least not on my watch, okay?" Murr replied.

Zyan experienced a flush of guilt. "Sorry, Murr," he said, with genuine contrition.

"Have a good trip, CS Jarvis," Murr said, and signed off.

Zyan lifted the _That'll Do_ off the deck and out into the grey but clearing skies.

\- o O o -

"See the rockfall?" Zyan said to Marin over a private sled-to-sled channel, when they arrived at the depression.

"Affirmative," Marin responded.

"Good. Let's land behind it – it probably makes most sense to move rubble out of the sides of the claim – and we don't want to be too close to the wall anyway. In fact let's keep our distance from the rockfall too," Zyan said.

"Agreed. You descend first. See you on the ground," Marin said.

Zyan brought the _That'll Do_ in for a landing close to the spot he'd picked, well, yesterday. For a moment he couldn't believe it was less than a day ago that he'd taken off from the site. Marin followed him down a moment later, and everyone got out of his sled to stretch, wince and then gawp at the ranges.

"It is advisable to eat and drink now," Marin told them all, handing out the advice Dane and Jolinda had given him very recently. "It is essential to stay hydrated and to keep one's energy levels up when singing crystal."

"I'm gonna check the site," Zyan said, and once again started scrambling up the rocks.

Aside from a crate which appeared to have been hammered into the gap between two boulders, not a lot seemed to have changed. Yanikov's sled was still there, although a boulder had fallen back on top of it, smashing the hatch shut. His hastily sprayed 'Z' was faded but still legible, and when he approached the wall, the sense of riches lurking beneath the debris was still there, as strong as ever.

"Is the claim still viable?" Marin called up.

Zyan gave him the thumbs up, to a ragged cheer.

This sense of elation was dimmed somewhat by the whine of crystal drives and a whoosh of air from above. A pair of sleds hissed overhead, circled once, and then left. One was larger than the other.

Zyan scrambled back down to rejoin the others.

"No guesses for prizing who that was," Tornaz quipped, with a certain grim amusement.

Zyan nodded. "We'll have to keep an eye open."

"You really think they'd try to steal our crystal?" Pharisa asked.

Zyan considered sharing the intelligence he'd received from the Crystal Singer about Shecherzia and Korzac's current predicament, but not for more than a moment.

"I think we have to assume so, definitely. If I was them I'd stay in the area under the pretence of prospecting, and bet on the bunch of newbies to be cautious: pack up and leave at the first storm warning, which is precisely what we intend to do. When that happens, they have an opportunity to swoop in and cut as much as they can before the storm warnings really kick in," Zyan said.

"I concur with your tactical assessment," Marin stated.

"Thanks, man," Zyan said.

"Can we stop them?" Rhanui asked.

"Dunno. I'll have a think," Zyan replied.

"We don't have to," Hollin said. "Even if their strategy succeeds-"

"It is a tactic, not a strategy," Marin said.

"You're backsliding, Mar," Aviczue said.

"My apologies, Hollin," Marin said.

"None needed," Hollin responded. "Even if their _tactical_ approach succeeds, they still have to explain where they got the black crystal from."

"Unfortunately, they've got plausible deniability on that. Vander's cut black before – that's kinda the reason I'm here – and I happen to know Shecherzia and Korzac have, too. They still hold those claims, although they've all been destroyed by storm. I'm guessing at that, in Vander's case, but his behaviour seems to suggest desperation. Anyway, all they have to say is that their claims weren't quite as badly banjaxed as they originally thought and they managed to get a little bit extra cut from them. Everyone'll know they're lying, but as long as nobody catches them in the act they're in the clear," Zyan shrugged.

"That's...devious!" Q'Tonisa exclaimed.

"Low," someone else agreed.

"And entirely viable," Zyan said. "Anyway, that's all academic unless we can clear this lot out of the way and actually _cut_. Get changed into your work gear, then let's get busy with these exo assist suits."

The manual had said the suits were designed to be as intuitive as possible to operate, and, up to a point, that was true. When activated, they unfolded themselves and stood up – they looked like chrome skeletons, patiently awaiting enclosure in muscle and skin. In fact, the opposite was true: the vulnerable skin – ie, the operator - stepped inside. His or her motions were copied by the exo suit – in theory turning the operator into a slightly taller, _much_ stronger version of themselves capable of doing things like picking up very large rocks and heaving them around, an activity very much relevant to the group's interests, right this minute.

Zyan went first, and initially managed very little except a few spasmodic steps and twitches of his arms.

Rhanui, who'd been a habitat engineer, shook her head in exasperation. "You're doing it all wrong," she said.

"Are you an expert?" Zyan asked, ever so slightly sharply. In his defence, Tornaz had been laughing at him since he'd first strapped himself into the thing.

"I don't think you need to be an expert to tell you're doing it wrong," Tornaz observed. "Even _I_ can see that."

Zyan stepped on his pride. "I think we'd all appreciate a little expert tuition, Rhanui, if you'd see your way clear."

Rhanui nodded, and stepped into an exo of her own. "They look similar to exoskeletal spacesuits, and I spent a _lot_ of time in one of those. I think if I can just compensate for being in gravity..."

Rhanui _started_ her demonstration by performing a backflip three metres in the air, and finished it by heaving a large boulder ten metres across the depression's floor and bowing with a whine of servos. This earned her a round of applause and some whistling - Zyan nearly knocked himself over when he joined in the clapping, having forgotten he was also in an exo and thus clapped with the force of a sledgehammer.

"Exaggerate your movements, rotate your whole body and not just your head, and _trust_ the suit to stay balanced. Then you'll be an expert too," she smiled sweetly at him.

"I deserved that," Zyan said. "Sorry."

Rhanui's smile turned genuine. "You're forgiven."

A light touch was _not_ an asset when controlling an exo. Zyan followed Rhanui's advice and exaggerated his movements. He quickly gained aptitude, as did the others who were learning. Picking up a heavy rock was as easy as picking up an empty crate, once you'd got the knack.

"Okay, Rhanui – you're officially in charge of excavations. Tell us what to do," Zyan said.

Rhanui did not look even slightly over-awed by her sudden promotion, and she'd been watching how everyone did and gauging their proficiency. "Pharisa and Tornaz: start clearing at ground level from the west. Marin and Aviczue: start clearing the east side at ground level. Zyan and Colina – you're with me," Rhanui said.

"Where will we be working?" Zyan asked.

"On top," Rhanui said.

"Of course!" Colina said. "Three-dimensional thinking!"

Zyan had not thought of this possibility, and decided he'd better be gracious about it. "I didn't think of that. That's great, we'll get done even quicker!"

"It'll be a bit tricker than working on the flat, but out of everyone you two seemed most confident in your exos, well, once you got the hang of it anyway, Zyan," Rhanui told them. "Come on, let's be about it."

They whined and buzzed up to the valley wall and started prising boulders from the middle of the rockfall.

For safety's sake, they had to clear rocks quite a way back: they didn't want any rolling down towards the face and crushing anyone working there. Yanikov's unfortunate sled was even partially excavated, they cleared so far from the face. Even so, with seven super-strong workers attacking the rockfall from three different angles, they were finished remarkably quickly – it was only mid-afternoon when the last exo was folded up and loaded back into Zyan's sled. The sun, which had been hiding behind cloud all day, finally came out.

Zyan had to work very hard not to stop and stare while they were clearing away the last of the rocks. The longing to rush over and run his hands against the crystal face was an almost physical compulsion. The face wasn't anything special to look at: dirty with grey dust, the crystal only visible in the few places someone had rubbed it clean. It called to him, though. He sang at it, and it answered in C, the sound passing through him and round his veins and nervous system. He dropped to his knees and laughed helplessly, then gave in and rushed over to it, feeling it through the grime, putting his ear up to it to listen.

"Um, can we start cutting now?" Tornaz asked. "Or do you and your ladyfriend here need to get a room first?"

"We will consume food and drink first, then fetch cutters and crates," Marin answered. "Zyan and I will do some demonstration cuts and impart to you the knowledge that was imparted to us, and then, I believe, we will be able to work in two shifts of four and one of five. There appears to be room," Marin answered him.

This was duly done – very quickly, since everyone but Zyan and Marin was desperate to actually do what they'd spent so many days training for and finally cut crystal.

Zyan ruthlessly brought himself to heel and, with Marin, delivered a lecture similar to that given them by Dane and Jolinda. Then it was time to make the first cut.

"Zyan, it is definitely you first this time," Marin said, with a smile.

Zyan nodded. He was, now the moment was upon him, terrified. Nevertheless, he tuned and set his cutter to the C, activated it, braced everything, and cut.

If cutting rose quartz had been a torrent of sound and sensation, black was a tidal wave. He wasn't singing the note as he cut, the black was singing it _through_ him. He had no idea how he finished his cuts and excised his first black crystal. The next thing he was aware of he was on the ground and Marin was bending over a crate, putting something in it.

"What?" He asked, groggily.

"You forgot your gloves," Marin told him, straightening up.

Zyan looked at his ungloved hands, dirty with grime.

"What?" He asked again.

"You thralled," Aviczue told him. "You put your cutter down, picked up the crystal and then – gone. Just standing there, holding it."

Zyan was shaking as he got to his feet.

"How much time?" He asked.

"Only a few seconds. Are you okay?" She asked, concerned.

"Yeah, fine, I think." He'd taken his gloves off to better undo the catches that held him into the exo, and neglected to put them on again. He pulled them on now. "God, it really is that easy for it to get you."

"Lesson one was kinda intense, then," Tornaz stated. "Did you do that on purpose to drive it home?"

Zyan considered taking this way out, but decided against it. "No – just careless. This is why I can't cut alone. I'll know better next time." He picked up his cutter again.

"What are you doing!" Aviczue asked, shocked.

"I've gotta do this, Aviczue," Zyan said, although right then he really didn't. "This is my life now, I have to be able to do this."

Aviczue looked doubtful, but said no more.

Zyan steeled himself to cut again, and this time it was less intense. The first cut, it seemed, was the worst. Zyan cut and packed a set of three blacks.

"There. Beat you," Zyan told the innocent-looking shafts within their crate.

"Suitable for a planetary network," Marin said. "Perhaps fifteen thousand credits."

"Two grand each - but we need better. Five shafts," Zyan said.

"Then we'd best get to it," Aviczue said, unslinging her cutter. "Let me have a go."

\- o O o -

For the rest of that day, they cut the face. Once everyone had made a few cuts under Zyan or Marin's supervision and proved themselves at least basically proficient, they split up into three shifts of four and worked on different parts of the face. Four people cut, four people observed - ready to step in in case of thrall, and the other four rested or carried crates: empty ones from Zyan's sled, full ones into it. They rotated every hour, to ensure nobody sang for too long.

It worked rather well, and they had cause for elation several times.

Zyan was left as a sort of floater. He checked the weather report (still clear for five days), obsessed over the comunit in his sled (he expected an angry summons from the Guildmaster, but none came), did some more cutting (without thralling), provided assistance when necessary and tried to think of a way of protecting the claim when they had gone: from both claim jumpers and the elements. Towards the end of daylight, he started to set up worklights, but sent the four people who came off shift to Marin's sled to eat and then sleep - the remaining eight would continue working, but at a reduced pace.

"Zyan," Q'Tonisa called him over to his sled. "We're low on crates."

"Blimey, already?" Zyan hadn't been keeping count. "Shard it."

"Chin up," Q'Tonisa advised him. "This is what we used to call a High Quality Problem when I managed a factory: one you have to solve because you've been too successful."

Zyan had been dreading this moment because it meant flying back to the guild cube, where there was probably music to be faced. Murr would have discovered he'd been hoodwinked, and that had been a genuinely unfair thing to do to him. Zyan had no idea what the Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer were going to say, but he doubted it was going to be pleasant.

Still, it could be worse.

"Okay. Let's transfer all the food and water out of my sled and into Marin's - I'll resupply when I fly the first haul back to the cube and return with empty crates. If you run out while I'm gone, there are a dozen or so empty ones in Yanikov's sled you could use," Zyan said.

Q'Tonisa made a face: he supposed she wasn't keen on going into a dead man's sled.

"I'll hurry." Zyan promised.

There wasn't actually a lot of food left to transfer: two week's supply for one man didn't go very far for thirteen people with burgeoning symbiotes to keep fed, and they'd purposefully been using the supplies from the _That'll Do_ first. Zyan let everyone know what he was doing, and lifted off a few minutes later.

He circled the site once, just to look. They weren't exactly being subtle: the place was lit up like a city centre. Korzac wouldn't exactly have his work cut out keeping tabs on them, if he was lurking in the area. He pointed his nose at the guild cube and piled on the thrust.

His reception when he got there wasn't quite as frosty as he'd expected.

"CS Jarvis, flight control. Requesting permission to land," he sent.

There was a noticeable pause before he received a reply. It wasn't Murr, but another member of his team.

"Flight control, CS Jarvis. You are not expected back so soon. _Nobody_ is. Is there an emergency?"

"Negative, Control. I am returning to resupply and refuel," Zyan replied.

"Oh," flight control responded. "Um, permission granted for landing, all lanes are clear."

"Acknowledged, Control. All lanes clear." Zyan was about to sign off, grateful that he hadn't had to deal with an infuriated Murr, but then added. "Do you happen to know what your boss's favourite drink is, by any chance?"

"Um, Kachachurian scotch," flight replied. "Why do you-?"

"Acknowledged with thanks, Control. CS Jarvis out," he signed off hurriedly.

Considering it was late and nobody was expected back, there certainly was a crowd in the hangar. Foremost among them were the Guildmaster and Crystal Singer, with rather dark expressions on their faces, but behind them stood Clodine, several sorters, the Hangar Officer, several hangar hands and Alenda.

Zyan settled his sled to the deck. It was suddenly quite a burning question in his mind whether the guild's senior Counsel doubled as their chief of police. Could you even _get_ arrested on Ballybran? Zyan reminded himself that Hollin had been over everything and they hadn't broken a single rule or regulation. The proper forms had been filed. Everything was going to be fine. He wasn't going to be summarily chucked into prison. He might get _sued_ , but he certainly wasn't facing a cell.

 _You might be, if you keep us waiting out here much longer,_ came a thought, unbidden. Zyan put it down to the stress of the situation and cracked the hatch.

None of the hands were coming over to unload, which didn't bode well.

Well, if you were flying into storm, you were aswell to do it straight and level. Zyan held his head high and approached the crowd.

"CS Jarvis," the Guildmaster greeted him in a neutral tone.

"Guildmaster, Crystal Singer." Zyan inclined his head to each.

"How did the training exercise go? Exo assist suits and procedures for evacuating personnel in a standard singer's sled, I believe," the Guildmaster asked.

 _Well this is interesting_ , Zyan thought.

 _Play along_ , came another thought on it's tail. Zyan decided he'd better.

"Going well, but still underway," Zyan replied. "I'm here to resupply. Hoping for a quick turnaround, to be honest."

"We'll see about that in a moment. Would you accompany me to Clodine's office, please? The Crystal Singer and I would appreciate a detailed briefing on how the exercise is going," the Guildmaster said.

"Sure thing," Zyan agreed pleasantly.

The Guildmaster turned and headed for a door in the sorting area wall. Zyan followed him, and the Crystal Singer, Clodine and Alenda followed him in turn.

Clodine's office turned out to be quite large – she not only had a desk in there but her own personal sorting table. As soon as everyone was inside and the door was sealed the Guildmaster turned to him.

"Different approach?" He asked Zyan, looking more than a little bit angry, now they were in private.

"Well, it _is,_ " Zyan said.

"I knew I should have asked for more details on this plan of yours," the man said. "You've flouted rules and regulations!"

"Actually no," Zyan told him. "I had a legal expert go over everything. There's nothing in the Guild Charter which prohibits partnerships of more than two singers."

The Guildmaster looked at Alenda, who nodded. "He's right. They haven't broken a single rule or regulation. All the contracts are in order. It was very good work."

"Hollin," Zyan shrugged. "He's as good as you said he was."

"You took eleven unqualified singers out to a black site - unshepherded!" The Guildmaster said.

"Marin and I acted as shepherds. They were already our partners so all the legal rigmarole about shepherding seemed – and _is_ , according to Guild law – unnecessary," Zyan answered.

The Guildmaster looked at Alenda, who nodded again. Zyan experienced a moment of regret – that drink with Alenda wasn't likely to happen, now. Alenda looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Zyan blinked and started to entertain certain suspicions.

"What about cramming twelve people into one sled! Without crash restraints!" The Guildmaster demanded, reminding Zyan that he was in the middle of a dressing-down and should probably pay attention.

"Again, technically legal," Zyan said. "The sleds are rated for emergency use for up to twenty passengers. The Guild is facing an emergency, right?" He asked.

"That," the Guildmaster said, shaking a finger in Zyan's face, "is sophistry."

"I suppose it is. But sophistry isn't forbidden by your rules and regs either," Zyan answered calmly.

"I would _strongly_ suggest you moderate your attitude, CS Jarvis," the Guildmaster warned him.

Zyan made a regretful face. "I do feel really bad about hoodwinking Murr," he said. "Seems like a good bloke. He likes Kachachurian scotch, I'm told. I'll get him a case and say-"

"Getting back into Flight Officer Murr's good books should be the last of your worries, young man," the Guildmaster interrupted. "I don't appreciate being lied to."

 _Young man?_ Zyan considered saying something about that, but decided against it.

"You _haven't_ been lied to," was what he did say. "You said don't cut alone, I didn't, I took _twelve_ partners with me. If two's company and three's a crowd, then thirteen is a sharding _horde_. You said don't endanger myself, I didn't – or no more than any trip into the ranges is dangerous, anyway. You said-"

"I know what I said!" The Guildmaster said, and it was plain to see he really was angry now. "You should have told me what you were planning!"

"So I could get told no?" Zyan snorted.

"Blasted right I'd've said no! This is _not_ the way we do things in the Heptite Guild!"

"Look who's talking!"

This surprised everyone, because it wasn't Zyan who'd spoken but the Crystal Singer.

"You've been rewriting the rule book ever since Lanzecki started grooming you as his replacement," Killashandra told her partner. "You've spent your entire tenure as Guildmaster dragging the Guild into the modern era, whether or not it wanted to come. You do _not_ get to berate someone else for pushing the envelope!"

The most powerful man in the Heptite Guild looked, for a moment, not unlike a naughty schoolboy being roundly told off by his teacher. There was a moment of silence.

"Well, _this_ is awkward," Zyan said. The Crystal Singer – and Alenda – both gave him a Look. He returned to silence.

The Guildmaster nodded and then turned back to Zyan.

"You really _should_ have told me what you were planning. I could have assigned you a transport sled, so you could have flown your, your- what are you calling yourselves?" He asked.

"We haven't got a name yet," Zyan said. "We were rushed, which was the exact same reason I didn't overburden you with details – it would've taken time to talk you round. Sorry."

"Okay – this is my fault as much as yours. I expected too much, too soon. At least tell me the site is cleared, so I can send in experienced singers. I'll stick to the original deal as regards compensation," the Guildmaster sighed.

"I'm sorry, Guildmaster, but that deal is off the table," Zyan said.

"What?" The Guildmaster was surprised. "You're in no position to-"

The Crystal Singer sighed. "Ask him what's in the sled, Lars."

"You've cut?" He asked Zyan.

"We've been cutting since midafternoon. We're still cutting now, in three shifts of four. Four people cut, four people observe as sort of safety monitors, and four people rest and carry crates. It's working out quite well as it hap-"

"Details later – _what_ have you cut? Have you got a five shaft set?" The Guildmaster asked.

Zyan grinned. "No, we haven't cut _a_ five shaft set."

Everyone stared at him.

"We've cut _three,_ " Zyan finished. "Which one would you like to see first?"

\- o O o -

The revelation that his team had already delivered the all-important five-shaft set of black crystal got Zyan off the hook as instantly and completely as he could have wished. He'd had the foresight to have the three crates containing their trio of quintets stashed next to the door. Clodine was despatched to fetch them.

"You didn't consider _leading_ with 'we've cut multiple five shaft sets', then?" Alenda moved across to him and asked quietly, as everyone waited for Clodine to return.

Zyan gave her a small grin. "I was going to, but when he went into full on disappointed headmaster mode my internal imp kicked in and decided to give him a hard time."

"Yes, I noticed. You may wish to extend him a little slack," Alenda replied. "It's a difficult time right now."

"Understood," Zyan answered. "I like the guy, honestly, I'll play nice next time." He was going to follow that up with a couple of questions for her about exactly _how_ she'd noticed, but the Guildmaster addressed him then.

"You can brag all you want about the rest of your crystal, but say nothing about the quintets," the man said. "Pass that on to your team, too, please – it's important."

"I won't – I wasn't planning on bragging anyway," Zyan told him. "Why not, though?"

"There's been a development," was all the Guildmaster would say. Well, he was in charge and he was entitled to keep his secrets (Zyan hadn't been incredibly forthcoming with _him_ , after all), but something was definitely up and he was burning with curiosity.

Clodine returned with the crates and unpacked the crystal onto her private sorting table. Zyan had only cut one of the quintets himself - Marin and Aviczue had cut the others – but even so he felt an irrational sense of jealousy when the Chief Sorter put her hands on them. He crushed it ruthlessly.

"It's horrible stuff, isn't it?" He commented.

"On the contrary, Zyan, you haven't cut badly at all," Clodine replied, misunderstanding. "A little unevenly, perhaps, but it won't inhibit the functionality of the crystals at all."

The Crystal Singer appeared to know what he meant, though. "Yes, it is. Try not to let it get to you too much."

Zyan nodded.

Clodine pronounced any of the three sets entirely fit for purpose, whatever the mysterious purpose was, then left her office to go and inspect the rest of the haul.

Far from eliciting a relieved response from the Guildmaster, this information only appeared to put him into a grim mood. He shook this off, though, or at least put it aside.

"Well, Zyan, I might've wished you'd been a bit more forthcoming about your methods, but I can't argue with the results. You've done well - you've all done well," the Guildmaster said, putting his hand on Zyan's shoulder.

It sounded forced, but Zyan didn't think it was his - no point beating about the bush - deception that was taking the shine off what should have been a moment for celebration. He could only assume that whatever the issue the guild was facing, the cure was as bad as the disease.

"Thank you," he said, then remembered Alenda's injunction to cut the man some slack. "And for what it's worth, I wish I'd been a bit more forthcoming about my methods, too. I'm used to just the authorities being something you have to work around to get things done, not someone who's there to help. You deserved my trust – sorry I didn't give it to you."

The Guildmaster listened and nodded. "I can understand, Zyan – better than you might think. Do an old man a favour and keep me in the loop from now on, though."

"Okay, will do. If we're done here, I need to get back to my people, Guildmaster."

"Of course," the Guildmaster said. "I'll arrange with Flight for you to take a transport sled with enough seating for your partners rather than the, the _That'll Do_ , isn't it?"

"Yes, Guildmaster. Thank you. They'll appreciate the comfier ride, I'm sure," Zyan said.

Zyan turned to look at Alenda, and decided to test a theory. _I'm sorry I won't have time for that drink_ , he thought, forming his mental words clearly and slowly.

Alenda's eyebrows rose fractionally. _Finally he catches on. You don't have to shout, by the way._

 _Sorry, I'm new at having my mind read. Is this better?_ Zyan replied.

 _Much_. Alenda's lips twitched. _I'd appreciate your discretion, if you don't mind._

 _My lips are sealed, though apparently my thoughts are an open book,_ Zyan thought.

 _I look forward to the next chapter, which ideally should feature that drink,_ Alenda's thought floated into his mind.

"Until next time, then," he said, out loud, and left the office, closing the door behind him.

Killashandra looked at the door. "He's realised, Alenda, hasn't he?"

Alenda nodded. "He's smart. Flexible. He was bound to figure it out, once I went active on him."

"He's devious, is what he is," Lars added.

"I can understand why he wouldn't be in your good books right now, even after this," Killashandra said, indicating the crystal.

"Oh, I'm not holding that against him. You were quite right that I'd be on shaky ground disapproving of new methods. No: the way the current business is going, we might _need_ a little devious."

\- o O o -

Zyan didn't like the transport sled: it was longer and wider than the _That'll Do_ , and didn't answer the controls as readily. Still, it had seating for fifteen people as well as a large cargo section, so he had to admit that it was better suited to the group's current purposes.

It was after midnight when he settled the transport sled down at the edge of the rockfall. Marin and Aviczue approached somewhat cautiously, which Zyan thought a bit odd until he remembered he was flying a different sled.

"It's okay, I'm not a claim jumper," he said, as he hauled the sled's side door back so he could jump down.

Aviczue laughed. "It's not that, we thought you were the Guildmaster or the Flight Officer come to drag us back to the cube in disgrace!" She indicated the huge Guild dodecahedron painted on the side of the sled.

"It was looking like it might go that way for a bit, to be totally honest," Zyan told them.

"But?" Aviczue prompted.

"But it turns out that a shedload of black crystal can smooth over almost anything. We're officially in business, now, with the Guildmaster's blessing," Zyan whacked the side of the transport sled, solid evidence of said blessing, and grinned.

Aviczue whooped and jumped. Even Marin smiled.

Zyan's grin slipped almost immediately, however. "Something is definitely very wrong, though. We're not supposed to talk about the quintets with anyone."

"Then we shall be silent about them," Marin said decisively. "The Guildmaster would not request such secrecy without a good reason."

"I agree, Marin," Zyan said. "It's just doing my head in I don't know what the reason is."

"One thing at a time," Aviczue said. "We've fulfilled our obligation to cut a quintet, secret or not. Let's keep our attention on the here and now."

"We have ceased work for the night," Marin said. "We were out of crates, and in any case everyone was exhausted. This is dangerous work, best not done with tired hands."

"Can't argue with that, I'm not exactly un-knackered myself." Zyan realised this was more than true. "There are emergency shelters in the cargo hold - let's hand them out, along with the good news that we aren't all going to be thrown into guild cells."

Once this was done, Zyan erected his own shelter and crawled inside. Remembering that they'd been overflown by putative claim jumpers earlier, he assembled the stunner, but it was the last thing he did before going to sleep.

\- o O o -

Zyan had yet to experience daybreak near a crystal face. After his first night in the ranges he'd risen before dawn in order to fly off: his second day had ended in the guild cube. The effects of crystal waking up for the day came as a complete surprise to him - and everyone else, as well.

Zyan was woken by the pinging and cracking of crystal, which brought about a strange feeling, which quickly turned into a _familiar_ feeling. _This_ wasn't in Full Disclosure, that was for sure.

The shelters weren't particularly soundproofed. It sounded like some people who were in relationships, and maybe some that weren't, were responding to the crystal's encouragement. Zyan wasn't overly happy with the notion that a rational, sentient being could be so easily manipulated, and so put his fingers in his ears and endured. He predicted - correctly - that nobody would mention it afterwards. A few of the team - Zyan included - moved their shelters a bit further away from the crystal face for subsequent nights, though.

Over the course of the next six days, they cut and shipped out an almost inconceivable amount of crystal. The delivery back to the guild cube became a regular daily run.

This did not go unnoticed.

Clodine, the Chief Sorter, took Zyan aside on the third day. With her was Zadran, the sorter Zyan had worked with when he was a recruit.

"Oh, hey Zadran, how's it going?" Zyan greeted him pleasantly.

"You see?" Zadran complained to Clodine, as if Zyan hadn't spoken. "And he's not even the worst. The girl that did the 'delivery' yesterday said she hoped she wasn't making too much work for us! It's unnatural!"

"Have I, or one of my team, done something to offend you Zadran?" Zyan asked, worried.

"No! That's the entire problem!" Zadran said in accusatory tones.

Clodine sighed. "You and your friends are being too nice," she explained.

"You what?" Zyan was confused.

"Look, there's a long-standing tradition of singers arguing with sorters. Some of them are just plain rude or aggressive and we don't want that, but a bit of arguing, wrangling over the price, it's expected," Clodine explained.

"I have absolutely zero problems with the price and no desire to argue with you guys, sorry," Zyan shrugged, a bit weirded out by the conversation.

"The odd accusation that we habitually leave your crates until last is always a good standby," Zadran suggested.

"There's nobody else's crates here. I'm the only singer in right now," Zyan pointed out.

"Look, you're being too polite, and that's that." Zadran crossed his arms.

"You're going to have to work with us here," Clodine said, with an open-handed gesture and a helpless expression.

"I literally dumped a dead body in your workplace less than a week ago, Zadran," Zyan reminded him. "I think I've met my impoliteness quota for the next six months."

"To be honest, I'd forgotten about that. It was a strong start, I'll grant you," Zadran admitted.

"I'm so glad to have your approval, Zadran. It keeps me up at night, sometimes, thinking 'would Zadran be okay with this'? It's an unending nightmare," Zyan said, with biting sarcasm. "Now, if it isn't too much trouble, would you mind awfully doing your actual job and sorting my crystal before we _all_ expire - from old age?"

Zadran beamed. "That's the spirit," he said, and returned to his sorting table.

"Thanks, Zyan," Clodine said. "I appreciate you making the effort."

"Any time," Zyan replied, bemused.

"Make sure you pass it on to your team, too," she exhorted him.

"I'll get Tornaz to do the next delivery. He won't let you down on the sarcasm front," Zyan promised.

Not all the incidents were so genial, though. A minor squall over the eastern ranges brought a few singers into the cube on the fifth day, and it didn't take them long to notice the large amount of black crystal being sorted or extract the story of it's provenance from the sorters. The fact that their crates were now all in a queue behind the team's black crystal probably explained a lot of the dark looks Zyan received, and simple jealousy explained the rest. That wasn't a reason anyone wanted to admit to, though, so 'disregard for tradition' and 'dangerous working practices' were substituted.

"Ridiculous, descending on a claim like a swarm of locusts!" Was one thing Zyan overhead while he was loading empties into the transport sled. It was one of the more polite criticisms.

Ordinarily Zyan might have kept an ear open on this front, on the general principle that it paid to maintain an awareness of what the other side thought of you, but he was in a hurry – meteorology were no longer so sanguine about the weather forecast, and a minor squall (still deadly) was likely to be the tip of the iceberg. He wanted to get back to the black site as soon as he could. Disgruntled singers of the old school would just have to wait. He pushed the hefty transport sled to it's limits on the way back.

It was starting to get a little breezy at the black site, but nothing more. Marin had started to display a certain twitchiness over the last twenty four hours and had started checking the weather every half hour, but the official line from meteorology was still 'pattern to watch' rather than 'warning'. The team had agreed to stow everything that wasn't completely necessary for cutting, and to evacuate the site in an orderly fashion when the first storm warning sounded.

They had, by now, cut so much crystal from the vein that the working was starting to resemble a shallow mine rather than an open cutting – there was a two metre overhang. This looked solid enough, but given the circumstances in which the claim had been discovered nobody was overly keen to go much deeper without doing something about it first. Zyan had given this quite a lot of thought, and reckoned he might have a way to kill two birds with one massive great hunk of stone.

This would, however, depend on the state of Yanikov's sled. Zyan equipped himself with tools and started removing access panels from the ancient machine until he located what he was after, then started fiddling with it.

"What are you doing?" Aviczue asked him.

"Making an IED," Zyan said. "Occupational skill I picked up in my previous career."

"Very funny. What are you _actually_ doing?"

"I actually am making an explosive charge – sort of," Zyan said. "Way the weather's looking we're going to be bugging out in a few hours tops. Rhanui's got a plan to protect the claim by stacking rocks back in front of it, but we returned all but one of the exos so I don't think we're gonna have time for that, to be totally honest, and we've got to do _something_ about the overhang. So, I reck-"

"Okay, stop right there. Both talking and tinkering. You are _not_ blowing up the claim. You are especially not blowing up the claim with dangerous homemade explosives. This isn't Djiel, Zyan, and there are twelve other people here who'd really prefer not to die in a stupid accident." Aviczue sounded serious.

"Stop and hear me out," Zyan said. "This-" he indicated the object he we was working on, a stubby tube about half a metre in length "-is the portside emergency thruster from this sled – it has it's own internal neolithium battery. Good kit – two and a half centuries and it's still in working order, or at least enough for our purposes. We cut a hole in the rock above the claim, shove this into it, rig it to overload and then retire to a safe distance. It overloads, goes bang – not particularly powerfully, to be honest – if it went off now we'd just get burned – and with any luck brings the overhang down in front of the claim. Job done."

"You're insane. Have you been cutting too much?" Aviczue wasn't impressed.

The first storm warning chose that moment to go off – the high-low-high-low pitch of the siren indicated it was an urgent one.

"Maybe. I reckon we might be about to run out of time for any niceties, though," Zyan replied.

\- o O o -

"I too do not _like_ this plan, but we have little choice if we wish to preserve the crystal," Marin – a surprise ally in Zyan's current quest to persuade the others of the merits of the overhang-go-bang plan – stated.

Aviczue had not been persuaded. "Rhanui, are you sure there isn't time to protect the face with boulders?"

Rhanui shook her head. "Not effectively, with the time I've got. The storm warning says only an hour before it hits. I could move _some_ , certainly, but I don't think I can cover the face to the depth it was covered before."

The storm was inbound – they had very little time.

"It's still too risky," Aviczue asserted.

"Only for me," Zyan said. "Everyone else takes off – you lot head back to the cube, Marin stays in his sled away from the overhang behind the existing pile of rocks and waits. I place the thruster in the hole, set the timer and run. I'm the only one in any danger, and I'm sure there isn't even very much. This is more likely to fail pathetically rather than fail explosively."

"I don't like it, Zyan," Tornaz said, with no levity.

"I'm not overly keen on it myself, Tor, but I'm even less keen on our claim getting trashed by a storm. This one's bigger and meaner than the last, and our claim is very vulnerable. This is our first trip out to the ranges, and of necessity it's been cobbled together and bodged so far. This isn't ideal but we've done what we had to do and against all expectations we've succeeded. There's one last difficult job to do before we can go home in the absolute knowledge that we did everything we could to protect the black crystal that's so important to the guild. Of my own free will, I'm taking this risk on. My decision, nobody else's. Let's vote," Zyan said.

The speech must've sounded better out loud than it did in Zyan's head – the vote was unanimously in his favour.

"I should spend as long as I can moving rocks back next to the claim," Rhanui said. "Every little helps."

"You're right. Also I'm going to need _something_ to stand on to cut a hole for the charge, so start in the middle, if you don't mind. Fifteen minutes only, then get to the transport sled," Zyan said. "Everyone else pack everything else up."

Rhanui left to break out the exo. Aviczue turned to Zyan. "You – be _careful_." She turned to Marin. "You – make sure he doesn't forget about the being careful part."

With the decision made, everyone got on with their tasks. It didn't take long to bodge a timer (filched from the miniature oven in Marin's sled) onto the rigged thruster. Rhanui, in the meantime, had managed to erect a low wall of boulders, maybe three deep, with a raised pile in the middle for Zyan to stand on. Zyan waved her back to the transport sled before he approached with the homemade blasting charge and his cutter. He heard the transport sled take off while he was finishing cutting out a hole. He carefully inserted the thruster and then set the timer going – allowing five minutes. That done, he slung his cutter on his back and turned to head for Marin's sled - and safety.

He was startled by a whine of crystal drives and a blast of air that knocked him flat. His first thought was that either Marin or whoever was flying the transport sled had deviated from the plan and touched down right next to the claim in order to pick him up, but when he got up he realised he was mistaken. Two sleds had landed next to the claim, a single and a double, neither of which belonged to his friends.

Their hatches opened and three singers emerged, each carrying their cutter and a crate. Vander, Shecherzia and Korzac.

They saw Zyan and froze. Clearly they hadn't seen him when they landed: he was fortunate not to have been crushed. They must have seen the transport sled depart and assumed the coast was clear.

The fact they were blatantly claim jumping, though, wasn't what was foremost in Zyan's mind right now.

"I've just set blasting charges!" He shouted over the rising wind and the storm warnings from both sleds. "There's less than five minutes! Get out of here!"

Vander immediately started backing towards his sled, and Shecherzia also headed for hers.

Korzac didn't move.

"You're alone," he said, with an evil grin. He let his crate fall and activated his cutter. If his intentions weren't completely clear from his actions, the look in his eyes laid any doubt to rest.

"Danlo, stop!" Shecherzia shouted.

"There are no explosives! He's lying!" Korzac shouted back.

Shecherzia, for once, was not in control of her expression: she looked simultaneously terrified and incredulous.

"Turn your sharding cutter off and get back here, you fool!" She shouted.

Korzac wasn't listening. Zyan pulled out the stunner and levelled it at Korzac.

"Get back in your sled, Korzac!" Zyan said, wondering briefly why he wasn't just running. "It isn't safe here!"

Korzac didn't believe it was a real stunner any more than he believed the warning about the explosives, he just gave a bark of laughter: and then Marin came running over the top of the rockslide and up to Korzac. "Claim jumpers! You are hereby notified that according to-"

Marin didn't get to finish his citation. Korzac whirled in surprise, the cutter blade coming round with him, and there was a hiss and a spray of blood.

Shecherzia screamed.

Far from eliciting shock and regret in Korzac, this only seemed to spur him on. He raised his cutter over Marin and started to stab down for a death blow.

"Danlo stop!" Shecherzia screamed.

Zyan fired a single shot, which took Korzac in the side. He staggered, and Zyan shot him again. Korzac turned to Zyan, shrieked something incomprehensible and started toward him, raising his cutter.

Shecherzia screamed again. Zyan fired three more times before Korzac went down. His cutter blade hit the rocky ground at an angle and broke.

"Marin!" Zyan ran over to his friend's side. He was unconscious and bleeding heavily from a diagonal slash across his arms and chest.

Shecherzia darted forward, grabbed Korzac and dragged him back into their sled. A first aid kit came flying out of the hatch in Zyan's general direction, then it was slammed shut and the sled was airborne.

Zyan ripped the kit open and fumbled at the wound sealant. How long was left on the timer? A minute? Less?

"Vander! Help me with him! We have to go before this thing blows!" Zyan called to the remaining singer.

Vander's only response was to shake his head mutely, eyes wide, and then he made a dash for his sled.

"Vander!" Zyan screamed, pointing the stunner at him. "I swear to God if you don't help us I'll fire!"

Vander simply sealed his hatch. His sled followed the other.

Zyan shoved the stunner back into it's makeshift holster, sprayed a tube full of wound sealant over Marin's chest and arms, for all the good it might do with his clothes still on and gale-force winds starting to blow, and heaved him upright. He groaned but didn't regain consciousness. Zyan half-dragged, half-carried him away from the face as quickly as he could, stumbling and falling and getting back up and repeating the whole cycle multiple times in his haste to get away.

Zyan felt rather than heard the actual explosion, as a sharp, sudden jolt transmitted from the ground to his spine. This was followed by a cracking and a crashing noise and a hail of gritty shrapnel. Any dust was whipped away immediately by the wind.

Zyan looked back over his shoulder. It looked like his plan had worked, but they'd had a narrow escape: jagged rocks had landed less than a metre from them.

Escape was hardly less of a priority now. The storm was picking up and Zyan knew from very recent experience how quickly they could worsen. He hoisted Marin up again and headed for the blaring of his sled's storm alarms – there was too much grit and dust being blown around to see. Marin had left the hatch open – he braced to heave him into it but Marin had apparently regained consciousness and got his legs underneath him, which made it easier. Zyan followed him in and slammed the close button, shutting out some of the wind's fury.

"Status report?" Marin asked.

Despite everything Zyan gave vent to a strangled laugh and looked down. "Seriously?"

Marin managed a weak smile. "No."

"You'll be giving Tornaz some competition," Zyan reached for the medical kit.

"No time – strap me in to the bunk and take off," Marin advised, with a grimace. "I've stopped bleeding. Just give me the med kit, I can use one arm, I think."

The sled was actually rocking from side to side at this point, so Zyan didn't argue. He lifted Marin onto his bunk, yanked the straps across him, and then darted into the pilot's seat.

"Brace for accel!" Zyan called, then executed another of his patented full-vertical-thrust takeoffs.

The sled hit really bad wind shear once it was above the level of the depression rim, but Zyan somehow managed to prevent it flipping over. "We need some height, hold on!"

Zyan climbed, bringing the sled up to a safer altitude. When he came around onto a heading direct for the guild cube, the storm warnings finally gave over, although the sled was still far from even and was still taking a buffeting.

"I don't think the autopilot's going to cut it," Zyan told Marin. "How're you looking?"

"The bleeding hasn't restarted. There is a considerable amount of pain, but on balance I think I have been fortunate. How are your face and hands?" Marin asked.

"What? Fine. Nothing happened to me," Zyan answered.

"You have multiple cuts and contusions," Marin told him.

Zyan hadn't felt any pain, but Marin was right about his hands, at least: they were scratched and bruised, probably from impacts with rocks as they were scrambling to escape. They itched a little, as did his face, but that was all.

"Minor stuff, never mind that," Zyan replied.

Korzac was going to feel a bit of pain once he got back to the cube, though. He'd only be minutes behind him. He was going to get a kicking and a half, assuming he'd recovered from the stun bolts.

Oh yeah. The stunner.

"Shard it," Zyan muttered – he'd shot Korzac and threatened Vander with a very illegal sidearm. He knew the exact penalties for claim jumping – fines to the guild, and compensation to the rightful owner. He could only assume the penalties associated with for-reals shooting someone would be much worse.

"What?" Marin asked.

"Crosswind," Zyan lied. "It's OK. Shut your eyes and get some rest, man."

"Probably wise." Marin answered. "Thank you, Zyan, for not leaving me behind."

"It would've been a bit rude," Zyan replied, in what he hoped was a passable impression of someone who wasn't feverishly racking their brains trying to come up with a strategy for avoiding a charge of assault with an illegal weapon.

Zyan gave it a few minutes, then held the bucking sled on course with one hand while he broke the stunner down with the other. Good thing he'd practiced. If only he'd practiced bald-faced lying: he reckoned he'd be doing quite a bit of it soon.


	14. Chapter 14

Zyan radioed ahead as soon as he was in transmission range of the cube, declaring a medical emergency, so medics were on hand to whisk Marin out of the sled and away.

"Clear a path, please!" They shouted, as the sled was surrounded by their concerned friends as soon as it came to a stop, led by Aviczue.

"I _told_ you it wasn't safe!" She shouted at Zyan.

"It wasn't that – we had some uninvited guests and there was a cutter...accident," Zyan told her, sticking to his pre-prepared story. His strategy was simple: there was no gun.

"He'll be fine," one of the medics told Aviczue, and indeed Marin's wounds were already well on their way to being healed.

"I believe I will be. These are – were - deep cuts, but clean," Marin told Aviczue.

"I'm coming anyway," she said, in a voice which brooked no argument. "You – we're not done yet," she promised Zyan, and then rushed off after Marin.

"What happened?" Everyone else wanted to know.

"Claim jumpers," Zyan answered. "Korzac had his cutter out and he slashed Marin with it. Excuse me."

"What!"

But Zyan was already making a beeline across the hangar floor to the sorting area, where he could see Shecherzia, Vander and an awake and upright Korzac. Everyone, of course, followed him. The whole place was crowded with singers and sorters and hangar hands, so a crowd wouldn't be long in forming. Zyan wanted a crowd: he wanted public. A man with something to hide doesn't make a scene.

"Korzac!" Zyan snarled. "You nearly killed Janso, and you jumped our bloody claim!"

Yep, instant crowd.

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Korzac snarled back.

"Is he going to recover?" Shecherzia asked.

That threw Zyan a bit – he didn't expect any of them to care.

"Yes," he answered. "Lucky for you."

"I am greatly relieved," Shecherzia said, and to be fair she _did_ look very relieved. Then again, she was a good actress. "There has been a terrible misunderstanding and a terrible accident."

"Accident! Korzac was intent on murder," Zyan stated.

"You're raving," Korzac said.

Zyan had expected one of them to accuse him of using a gun by now. It was curious and slightly worrying that they hadn't.

"I think you're confusing raving with intense but fully justified anger," Zyan snapped. "You were claim jumping, and you were ready to eliminate the witnesses, too!"

"Lies! We were not!" Korzac retorted.

"This is what I mean by misunderstanding," Shecherzia said smoothly. "We did land at your claim, yes, but we were not claim jumping. We merely landed to ensure that a pair of novice singers, apparently caught out in a storm, were not in trouble – and there was a highly regrettable accident. Vander was there too, for the same reason, and saw it all. Isn't that right Soros?"

Vander – looking as much or even more terrified than he had at the claim, or back on Djiel, for that matter – nodded mutely.

"Very impressive," Zyan told her – realising, a little late, who his main adversary was going to be for the next few minutes. If he wanted to get away with this he was going to have to play to a crowd better than a famous vid actress. Great. "Have you taught him any other tricks?"

Then, things got suddenly harder. The Guildmaster turned up.

"So heartwarming to see you altruistically looking out for fellow singers in need, Shecherzia. This is a new direction for you," Dahl said as he turned up. The sarcasm was not subtle.

Shecherzia was not fazed, and chose that moment to play her trump card. "I know! Not a mistake I'll make twice, for - imagine our amazement - we were attacked! My partner had to defend himself - and then, would you believe it – he was shot! I should very much like to see the gun you used on my partner – you know the one, Vander tells me that you threatened him with it, too. I had thought they were illegal, but perhaps _arming_ new singers is another new policy of which I am not aware, Guildmaster?"

All eyes – not least among them the Guildmaster's – turned to Zyan. He deployed his defence.

"Gun? Oh, you mean this gun?" He reached down to the toolbelt and pulled out his gun – an L-shaped power driver.

The atmosphere in the sorting area was such that everyone – with the exception of the Guildmaster and Shecherzia, who seemed made of sterner stuff - cringed back from the innocuous device.

"Here, I shall demonstrate it's terrifying destructive power."

The power driver made a _vwee-vwee_ noise as Zyan activated it and swung it around, again causing a few people to duck and Shecherzia to laugh. It was a charming, glittery sort of laugh that Zyan would have found infectious had he not already identified her as a stone cold ruthless cow.

"Thank you, CS Jarvis, I think you've made your point," the Guildmaster growled, evidently somewhat irritated: whether it was by Shecherzia's prevarications, Zyan's sarcasm or everyone else's risible reaction was anyone's guess.

"But I was shot!" Korzac snapped.

"You look remarkably well for a gunshot victim," Zyan said. "I must get the name of your doctor, he or she is a miracle worker."

"It was a stunner of some kind, as you well know!" Korzac growled.

"This is a _screwdriver_ , Korzac. I was _pretending_ – you were advancing on me with your cutter held up. You fell for it, panicked and banjaxed your cutter into the bargain. Maybe you got an electric shock, I don't know – or care, for that matter," Zyan shrugged.

"Guildmaster, we are willing – this time – to chalk this episode up to youthful exuberance. Jarvis' partner has not been badly hurt and Danlo doesn't appear to have taken any lasting harm from his fall. We shall ignore the matter of Danlo's lost sonic cutter in recognition of the fact that we handled the incident somewhat badly," Shecherzia said reasonably, as if writing off assault with a deadly weapon was something one did every day of the week and was completely unremarkable.

Part of Zyan wanted to let this go, but he knew it would look suspicious if he were to so easily accede when he should have been claiming the moral high ground.

"'Somewhat badly'?" Zyan scoffed. "Marin can only use one arm, you nearly killed him!"

The Guildmaster held up a hand. "One thing at a time." He turned to Vander. "Are CS Janso's injuries the result of an accident?" Dahl asked.

Vander nodded, jerkily.

It was at that point that Zyan noticed Alenda enter the sorting area. She started wending her way through the crowd towards the Guildmaster.

Zyan started to think ' _oh shards_ ', but quickly stepped on it. He made his face into an impassive mask and tried to blank his mind. He repeated _1, 2, 3, 4_ over and over - a trick some fellow malcontent at the Djiel Conservatory had sworn was proof against giving anything away during a loyalty check. Zyan couldn't remember what had happened to him, now he thought on it, but he had to do _something_.

"Did CS Korzac threaten CS Jarvis with a cutter?" Dahl was asking.

"I don't- I don't think so," Vander said, looking at Shecherzia as he spoke.

"And CS Jarvis' gun - was it just a screwdriver?" Dahl asked.

Vander paused. "Probably. I couldn't see, it wasn't clear what was-"

"I need a definite answer here, CS Vander. Maybe a better question would be this: did CS Jarvis shoot CS Korzac with a directed energy weapon?" The Guildmaster asked.

"N-no," Vander answered hesitantly. Alenda was looking intently at him. Zyan wondered why she found it necessary to do so, then realised this was a very bad time to have her at the forefront of his mind. _1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4_ , he started counting again.

"Thank you, Soros. Finally, is CS Alar's version of why you landed at the claim the truth? You came to help, not to cut?" The Guildmaster asked a final question.

Vander nodded. "Yes. We were checking they were okay, nothing more."

Zyan thought - quietly - that he could probably let this lie now. Hollin, though, had other ideas.

"If you were only there to help," he asked, "why did Korzac have his cutter out?"

 _You're a sharp customer, Hollin,_ Zyan thought, although right then he wished Hollin had more of his old reticence and less of his newfound confidence. If Alenda sensed Zyan's ambivalence about what he should have thought was a very good question, she said nothing.

Shecherzia came to his rescue. "You're new, so you won't know this, but some singers who are perhaps weaker willed than they should be often refuse to stop cutting, even in the midst of a storm. One way to stop them is to cross-cut against their cutter. Danlo was prepared against that possibility. We also had crates out: sometimes - _shockingly_ \- you have to physically defend yourself from the person you're trying to help and a crate makes a useful shield," she explained, not without a little sarcasm. "In any case we have cut no black crystal: the Guildmaster is welcome to search our sleds. Cutting or removing crystal is the offence: nothing in the rules and regs prevents landing on a claim."

The Guildmaster looked at Alenda and then Shecherzia. Alenda shook her head minutely.

The Guildmaster turned to Zyan. "CS Jarvis: is this what happened?"

Zyan tried to shield his thoughts with counting. Alenda shot a quizzical look at him.

"They didn't cut anything, no," Zyan admitted, and then, because although he was giving in for tactical reasons he didn't have to be gracious about it, added: "My bad, CS Alar. I can only apologise that I didn't realise you were trying to help when you landed right in front of our crystal face and broke out your cutters without trying the comunit first."

"I'll forgive you this time - it's not your fault you're ignorant," Shecherzia said sweetly.

"If you two want to take this further, then by all means accompany me right now and we'll convene a meeting of the Chiefs to discuss it officially – under oath," the Guildmaster said firmly.

"The Chiefs are busy people with a lot on their minds. Let us not trespass upon their time so churlishly," Shecherzia replied calmly.

"Oh you're _good,"_ Zyan told her. "Butter wouldn't melt, would it?"

"I _despise_ butter," Shecherzia said airily. "Such a _primitive_ substance: greasy and unpleasant." Then she literally fluttered her eyelashes at Zyan.

"Only if you spread it on too thick," Zyan replied flatly.

Shecherzia laughed. "Oh, we simply _must_ become friends, you and I, Zyan. One so often finds that people from less advanced cultures bring a charming simplicity to the Guild quite at odds with the civilised attitudes we have grown so used to." She smiled.

 _She's enjoying this,_ Zyan thought.

"Yes, let us put the minor matter of opening someone's chest and arms up with a sonic cutter aside and go get a coffee or something," Zyan growled.

"I find it somewhat _bitter,"_ Shecherzia sniffed.

"Enough!" The Guildmaster cut in. "This matter is either dropped now, or it goes to the chiefs now. Shecherzia: one word answer – 'dropped' or 'chiefs', and then you're silent on the subject."

"Dropped," Shecherzia replied, with a sarcastic little curtsey.

"Zyan, same," Dahl stated.

"Dropped," Zyan replied, and exhaled hard.

"Then off you both go, and if either of you brings this up again, you better be ready for this to be 'dropped' straight into the laps of the aforementioned chiefs meeting. Have I been clear?"

"Yes, thank you Guildmaster," Shecherzia said. She blew a kiss at Zyan and walked away, followed by Korzac and Vander.

"I think I'm in love," Tornaz said dryly. Pharisa whacked him on the arm.

Alenda, Zyan noted, watched them leave with wide eyes. The minor detail of why she _looked_ at them seemed unimportant right then. What had she sensed from them? What had she sensed from _him_?

She tapped Dahl on the shoulder and whispered something to him. Zyan couldn't make it out, even with symbiote-boosted hearing - but then again she had alternate means of conveying information privately and the whisper could just be for effect. Dahl also looked at the backs of the departing trio.

"Anything else you want to tell me?" The Guildmaster asked, turning back to Zyan. The question, coming on the heels of Alenda whispering in his ear, startled him.

"What? No, Guildmaster," he replied, absolutely truthfully.

The Guildmaster departed the scene soon afterwards, taking Alenda with him. She didn't say – or send – anything to Zyan before she left.

\- o O o -

Marin was discharged about an hour later – his cuts had healed incredibly quickly, at least by the standards Zyan still had in his head as normal. By crystal singer standards, his swift recovery was probably unremarkable. His speedy discharge might have been down to the fact that Presnol was keen to have him out of the infirmary, though: all twelve of his partners were insisting on visiting him at the same time.

The common room was afire with gossip about the incident in the sorting area, so a meeting was hastily convened in Zyan's quarters. Marin and Zyan presented an account of what had happened, although of course past a certain point only Zyan knew what had happened – or so he thought.

Whether or not Marin's injuries had been a result of Zyan's improvised blasting charge, Aviczue clearly still held Zyan at least partly responsible.

"Did you have a gun, Zyan?" She demanded, arrowing straight to the question Zyan had hoped to avoid. Well, she _had_ been a police officer.

"Yes, he did," Marin replied.

A moment of silence.

"And a good thing too," Marin finished. "I didn't lose consciousness as quickly as I told the medics. Korzac might have struck me by accident to _begin_ with, but he was about to finish the job: there is no question about that. If Zyan hadn't shot him he would have killed me – and I strongly suspect he would have gone on to kill Zyan. CS Alar and CS Vander would have been witnesses to murder, at that point. He would have had to kill them, too. The storm would have erased any evidence."

Zyan sighed. "He's right. Here." He dug out the three component parts of the stunner from his pockets and held them up. "These assemble into a stunner – I've had it since Djiel. Yes, I used it on Korzac. Yes, he was about to kill Marin. Yes, I would do exactly the same thing if I had to make the decision again. I'm going to the Guildmaster to ask him to convene a Chief's Council. I've had enough of lying – I'm going to confess."

More silence, then: "I move that Korzac is a psycho who had it coming. We ditch that gun in the ranges somewhere and keep schtum about this. All those in favour?" Tornaz asked.

Everyone except Aviczue and Zyan raised their arms – even Hollin, who presumably had a good grasp on the illegality of the situation. Then Aviczue looked at Marin, and raised hers too.

"What the hell – nobody died and I'm not a policewoman any more," she said.

"Guys, stop," Zyan said. "This is serious – I'm not making all of you accessories to covering up an illegal shooting, and what's more, Korzac _is_ a psycho and he needs to be arrested. I'm going to the Guildmaster, right now."

"He'll arrest you too, Zyan," Aviczue said. "I don't know how things work on Ballybran but on most FSP worlds - even if a court accepted that you'd acted solely in self-defence - you'd be looking at a custodial sentence for possession of an illegal energy weapon. It's also concealed, expertly so, with premeditation – which makes it worse."

"I know," Zyan said. "But it is what it is."

"Then I'm coming with you. You'll need representation," Hollin stated. "The Guild has failed in it's basic duty to protect it's members. It's hardly Zyan's fault that he had to resort to desperate measures to make up for this shortfall, and the illegality of non-lethal personal protection devices – which are perfectly legal on many worlds – was _not_ adequately explained in Full Disclosure! We'll see how keen the Guildmaster is to imprison Zyan when he's facing a counter-suit for allowing a dangerous individual to perpetrate homicidally aggressive acts of violence in an attempt to steal crystal from a lawfully registered claim!"

There was a lot of support and agreement for this.

"Hollin, no," Zyan said. "Not that you don't sound as impressive as anything, but I'm not dragging anyone else into this. It was my gun and my decision. The consequences are mine too."

 _We know about the stunner, by the way, before you decide to very admirably go rushing off to Lars,_ Alenda's thoughts sounded in his head.

 _Oh,_ Zyan thought.

 _I think it might be a very good time for us to get that drink, now_. _I'm about to sound your entry chime. I'd take it as a kindness if you'd refrain from anything rash – there may be a way to resolve this situation without anyone being arrested. Quite apart from anything else, we have no police force. I'd have to ask CS Cahrera to volunteer and that might prove a tad awkward._

On cue, Zyan's door chime went off. He walked over and pressed the open control.

"CS Jarvis," Alenda said. "Would you-"

"Senior Counsel, it is fortuitous that you are here," Hollin said, striding over to the door. "You should be advised that I will be filing suit against the Heptite Guild to prevent this gross miscarriage of justice!"

Alenda smiled. "CS Langtry, I should not want to face you in court under any circumstances. Your reputation precedes you, and your work on the contracts for your partnership, which must have been done on a very tight schedule, was very impressive. However I am simply here in an unofficial capacity to ask Zyan out on a date – we've been putting it off for some time and I wanted to have a chance to talk - before _work_ gets in the way."

Zyan got that hint, but Hollin was in full swing and wasn't going to be put off. "I'm very sorry, but it would be highly inappropriate for my client to have any contact with opposing counsel without-"

"Alright, tiger, back down there," Aviczue told Hollin. "Let's keep the legal option on standby – for an hour or so. Give Zyan and - Alenda, is it? - time for a drink and a chat."

Aviczue, it seemed, _had_ got the hint and scented that a possible fix might be in. He wondered if she'd had any help arriving at this conclusion.

 _No, she figured that out on her own,_ Alenda communicated. _It would be extremely rude to simply slide a thought into someone's head like that._

 _I note you didn't have any such issues where I was concerned_ , Zyan replied.

 _You seemed more willing to let me in,_ was her response to that.

All of this was extremely weird – and also extremely quick. Aviczue still hadn't finished speaking by the time Alenda and Zyan had completed their exchange.

"Excellent," Alenda said. "Meet me in the Eye of the Storm in fifteen minutes?" _You need a shower._

"Brilliant. Yeah. See you in fifteen." _Thanks for the tip._

Alenda smiled. "I hope to meet you all again, in better circumstances," she said to the rest of the group, and departed. The door closed behind her.

"Zyan, as your lawyer I strongly advise against this meeting," Hollin said.

"As your ex-copper, I strongly advise you to go," Aviczue said. "I think you're going to be offered a deal of some kind. Sorry, Hollin."

"Be _very_ careful about what you admit to," Hollin advised.

Zyan didn't think he should tell them that Alenda already knew everything she needed to thoroughly nail him to a wall, legally speaking. "I'll be very circumspect," he promised, instead.

"Something here stinks," Tornaz said.

"You're not wrong about that," Hollin agreed.

"Oh hang on, wait, it's _us_." Tornaz waved his hand in front of his nose. "We forgot to pack a shower when we went on our little camping trip. Zyan, as your friend, I strongly advise you to shower thoroughly before you go on a date or enter into any shady grey-legal pacts with mysterious otherworldly beautiful women."

"Beautiful, is she?" Pharisa asked him.

"It's not a limited resource, Phar, just because one woman is beautiful doesn't mean you're any less pretty," Tornaz said.

"Time out," Zyan said. "Pharisa, can you go elsewhere to give Tor the hard time you're about to give him over the 'she's beautiful but you're only pretty' mistake he just made?" Zyan asked.

"Oops," Tornaz said, looking pale.

"I believe so, yes," Pharisa said.

Zyan promised to fill everyone in on what happened, and then had a shower.

\- o O o -

The Eye of the Storm turned out to be a relic of the Guild's more affluent days - a small restaurant kept clean by menial drones but otherwise deserted and seldom visited: the kitchens were stripped bare and the catering slots deactivated. It was situated on the upper levels of the cube: in theory, you should be able to look out of the armoured windows and behold the majesty of Ballybran's landscape with your own eyes. In reality, the plasglas had been abraded by years and years of storm: it was translucent but no longer transparent. It gave customers – of whom there were only two, Alenda and Zyan – the impression that they were encased in cloud.

"I like to come here," Alenda announced from one the tables – she was sat with her back to Zyan. "I didn't know it wasn't possible to see out of the windows until the Crystal Singer pointed it out to me. From my point of view-" she let the irony of her words sink in for a moment "-there really is no difference. Please, join me."

Zyan walked over and sat down. "Hi, Alenda."

Tornaz hadn't been wrong – she really was 'otherworldly', and definitely very beautiful.

"Thank you, I do my best," she said, smiling. "I'm by no means immune to compliments. I'm afraid there's only one choice of drink, but I'm told that in common with so many others here you like Yarran beer."

She pushed an opened bottle across the table, and raised one of her own.

 _Cheers_ , she sent.

"Thank you," Zyan clinked bottles. "I do wish this was just a social engagement."

Alenda looked momentarily sad. "So do I – but it doesn't have to be unpleasant."

"We'll see," Zyan told her. "How private is your deserted restaurant?"

"Very," she tapped a small device on the table next to the beer, which Zyan had taken for a bottle opener. "This is a device the Guildmaster invented many years ago, when I'm told he was not so very different to you. It deals with any monitoring devices very effectively."

 _1, 2, 3, 4 why would someone only one jump down from the Guildmaster be worrying about being monitored within her own guild headquarters 1, 2, 3, 4,_ Zyan thought, trying to keep it private.

"And – pretty amazingly - you can see the door as well as I can," he guessed, and said out loud.

"Correct. You're an astute man," Alenda told him.

"Thank you, I do my best," Zyan replied in an echo of her earlier words, with a smile, then sighed. "I didn't come here to try and charm my way out of anything, though, and I'm not going to insult your intelligence by denying that I was armed - or unleash Hollin on the Guild's upper echelons like some sort of legal smart bomb. There will be consequences and I will face them alone. You already know what happened, I take it?"

"I don't know the details – I only know there wasn't a lot of truth being told in the sorting area. I know that you were lying, despite your efforts to keep me out – which weren't entirely ineffective, by the way, but you need practice," Alenda said.

"I'm surprised the counting thing did any good at all – and I'm genuinely sorry about the lies," Zyan said.

"I know you are – that's why we're here. I also know that Vander was terrified and lying, that Korzac was furious and lying, and that Shecherzia was ashamed and lying," Alenda said.

"Shecherzia was ashamed? I didn't even know she _did_ shame." Zyan was surprised.

"She was feeling _very_ guilty," Alenda confirmed.

"She sharding well should be," Zyan answered. "She left me and Marin to die in the ranges with no more help than a first aid kit she threw out of her sled hatch after she'd finished rescuing a would-be murderer."

"The bond between partners is very strong, I am told," Alenda said.

"Strong enough, apparently, to perjure yourself to protect a psycho," Zyan said.

"In a moment I would like you to tell me what happened," Alenda said. "But before you do, you should know that the Guildmaster has no intention of taking any action against you or your partners. We're well aware that Korzac is dangerous. We will take what action we can to ensure he is not a danger to anyone else."

Zyan nodded. "Thank you. There'll be a price, for this considerate attitude from management?"

"Yes – but you may find it's one you're uniquely well-suited to pay," she answered, mysteriously. "First – what happened?"

Zyan paused. "If I remember it…will you be able to watch?"

Alenda laughed. "What an amazing thing that would be! It doesn't work that way, I'm afraid."

Zyan felt foolish, Alenda patted his hand – and received a spark of resonance. She laughed.

"Go on," she said.

Zyan related what had happened and left nothing out. She questioned him closely on the blasting charge and the stunner, and seemed very curious about Vander, but didn't ask for a lot of details about Korzac's actions or what Shecherzia had done. Zyan found this odd.

Alenda, obviously, picked up on this. "I suppose it does seem a bit odd. I'd tell you more if I could, but please don't ask. Can I see the stunner?"

"The stunner? Yeah, I suppose I should really hand it over to you anyway." He produced the three sections and laid them on the table.

"Ingenious – you waltzed through Shankill security with this in your baggage, I presume, and didn't raise a peep from any sensors," Alenda said – her fingers went to her wrist unit. "Assemble it, if you would, please."

Zyan did so.

"How long?" He asked.

"Seventeen seconds," Alenda said. "I'm impressed. And back into it's pieces again – with your eyes closed. I _will_ be able to tell."

"Never doubted it," Zyan closed his eyes and disassembled the gun.

"Nineteen seconds," Alenda noted.

"What can I say, I'm out of practice," Zyan said. "Alenda, this is starting to sound a lot like a job interview – and not for any kind of job the Heptite Guild would be involved in, either."

"You might be surprised by the number of strange little jobs the Heptite Guild ends up being tasked with," Alenda told him, then finished her beer. "I'm afraid I _will_ have to take that, though. Do you have any other weapons stashed anywhere within Guild jurisdiction? This is a one-time offer – speak now or forever hold your peace, and I _do_ mean that literally."

Zyan pushed the disassembled stunner obediently across the table to her. "Just this," he said. "I lost my thermonuclear warhead down the back of the sofa."

Alenda smiled and took the stunner parts.

"And my side of this deal?" Zyan asked.

"This meeting never happened. There was never any gun. You and your friends stick to that story and never mention it again," Alenda told him.

"That's understood," Zyan said. "But what did you want from me?"

"Maybe nothing. If you don't hear from me or the Guildmaster in the next twenty four hours, it's history," Alenda shrugged.

"And if I do?"

"Bridges should be crossed when necessary, Zyan," Alenda told him.

"Okay. So, if the business part of this meeting is over, tell me..." Zyan struggled for words. "How do you do it, all of it?"

"Magic," Alenda smiled.

"Play nice – you promised me an answer," Zyan replied with a grin.

"I said the answer to that question would cost you a drink in the common room," Alenda reminded him. "This isn't the common room and the drinks were on me."

"You must be a _really_ good lawyer," Zyan said.

"I do my best," Alenda answered with a laugh. "I do have one answer for you, though. One million, three hundred and ten thousand, five hundred and twenty nine."

"Which means wh-, wait, is that the total for what we cut? Holy shards!" Zyan gasped.

"Oh, no, that's not your total." Alenda shook her head.

"Oh, right. Never mind." Zyan was crestfallen.

"Aw, you're just like a little puppy that's been told off. So cute. That's just the _official_ total. If you include the three five shaft sets you cut on day one and the further two you cut subsequently, plus the six shaft set – which marketing will go positively hysterical over, by the way, once they're allowed to know it exists – then your partnership pulled down just over two million one hundred thousand credits in six days of cutting. Tell your friends to keep it quiet, please." Alenda told him.

Zyan nearly blacked out and started to do some mental arithmetic.

 _I'll save you the trouble: it's about a hundred and thirteen thousand each, after the tithe,_ Alenda sent.

"Thanks. Whoa. Why aren't we allowed to talk about the five shaft cuts again?"

"No dice, Zyan, sorry," Alenda said.

"It was worth a try." He grinned.

Alenda looked at him. "You really are fascinating, you know."

"I'm not so special," Zyan said, with a slight shrug.

"I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who accepted what I am as calmly as you have," Alenda told him. "I've had people – friends and family- never come near me again. I've never had someone quite so unfazed by the concept of telepathy as you."

"It goes both ways," Zyan shrugged.

Alenda frowned. "How so?"

Zyan also frowned as he groped for eloquence. "Whenever you communicate with someone, no matter how you do it, talking, writing, whatever: you let a piece of that person in. You've just got a more direct method, is all. You said I seemed more willing to let you in? You seemed worth letting in."

Alenda blinked, smiled, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "That's a very lovely thing to say. It's an even lovelier thing to mean – and I happen to know you mean it. Thank you, Zyan."

"You're welcome. I'd ask if you wanted to go somewhere and have another drink, but I suspect the answer is going to be no, because you have to go and report how this conversation went to the Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer," Zyan said.

" _I'm_ supposed to be the psychic one," Alenda answered, standing up.

"Another time, then?" Zyan suggested hopefully, as he also rose.

"Yes. I'm going to be rather busy, soon. You may be, too - but whatever happens I will call you again," she said. "Enjoy the rest of your beer, Zyan."

She left, and Zyan purposefully turned his head to look at one of the ridiculous blurred windows as she walked away.

 _You're learning,_ she sent with a playful twist of humour, as the door swished shut behind her.

\- o O o -

It was less than a day before he saw her again, as it turned out - Zyan spent most of it drunk. The storm still raged outside – nobody was going anywhere to cut.

Zyan let everyone know that he was off the hook, what the totals were, and to be discreet about it. Then they all, Zyan included, went to sleep - it had been an exhausting day even for those of them who hadn't been attacked/nearly blown up/shot someone with a stunner/escaped an illegal weapons charge/had their mind repeatedly read – delete as appropriate. This was made easier when he put aside his instinctive distrust of the radiant fluid and tried it. Yes it was icky – it was a lot less irritating than constantly sparking off people and things, though.

The next morning he was awoken by a call from the sorting area.

Clodine's face filled the com screen. "You lot are weird," she said.

"And a very good morning to you too, Chief Sorter," Zyan replied.

"Hmph. Biggest stack of black crystal I've ever seen, we work ourselves ragged trying to get it sorted so you're not kept waiting for the total - and not one of you is around to ask what it was," Clodine said.

"I am _really_ sorry," Zyan said diplomatically. "We all went to bed, we were very tired, and we didn't want to be hovering over your shoulder the whole time. There seemed to be enough singers hanging around as it was."

The real reason was, of course, that they already knew. It didn't seem politic to say that, however.

Clodine smiled. "Yep. _Weird_. Swing by when you're up and I'll do the big reveal. You're going to love it. Even without the you-know-what it's impressive."

Zyan decided to get up then, but before heading down to the sorting area he went to the commissary and bought a fearsomely expensive case of Kachachurian scotch and several bottles of wine. The scotch he had delivered to Murr with an apologetic note. The wine he took down to the sorting area.

"For all you guys in recognition of heroic sorting of our crystal, apologies for not hanging around getting in the way and giving you a hard time while you did it, and also to say sorry for the thing with the dead guy in a crate," he explained, handing the clinking boxes to Zadran.

Zadran sighed. "You just don't get it, do you? Thank you, I suppose."

"Nope," Zyan agreed. "You're welcome, I suppose."

Clodine told him the total for public consumption. Zyan feigned delighted surprise, well enough to make even the hardest-bitten sorter smile a little, and left in a cloud of goodwill that Zadran would no doubt sigh heavily over.

He found everyone else in the commons. Far from settling down to coffee and cereal, they had already declared a day of celebration and broken out a plethora of alcoholic beverages.

"Zyan!" Tornaz hailed him. "We're stress testing the symbiote's resistance to alcohol. Care to join us?"

"Yep," Zyan said. "Just found out our total from Clodine, and if anyone asks we just found out it's one point three million, okay?"

Tornaz appeared to be already tipsy. "Message received and understood, skip," he said in a stage whisper, then declared dramatically and at volume: "One point three million! Ladies and gentlemen, we are officially minted!"

This earned them a few laughs, but more hard stares and muttering from around the commons. Zyan heard 'locusts' being used a lot.

"I think we're gonna hack off a lot of people if we kick off a private festival in the middle of the commons," Zyan said. "Let's take this elsewhere – I happen to know a place."

"I will join you presently," Marin said, looking thoughtful. "I have a small errand to run, first."

They repaired – with alcoholic supplies – to the Eye of the Storm where they continued their revelries. Marin rejoined them a half hour or so later.

"I have a present for each of us," he announced. "I have had these fabricated."

He placed thirteen soft discs on a table, each of them about three inches across.

"Coasters?" Rhanui asked, confused.

"Sleeve patches," Aviczue corrected him, smiling. "Marin, they're perfect."

Each patch was decorated with the same design – a long-tailed, winged insect of some kind set, in flight, against a background of the spires and peaks of Ballybran.

"Is that a locust?" Zyan asked.

Tornaz laughed. "Hah! They _are_ perfect." He slapped one onto his sleeve. "If that's what they want to call us, then damn it we'll _own_ it."

"I think, ladies and gentlemen, that we've found the name for our partnership," Hollin said.

"Yep," Zyan grinned. "Thanks, Marin."

"A toast – to the Locusts!" Tornaz called. Everyone raised their glasses and it went raucously downhill from there. There was even singing, at one point, some of it _extremely_ bad: quite a feat for thirteen people with perfect pitch.

It was some hours later when the Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer came to find them.

"Ahem," Dahl caughed politely.

Everyone whirled around in surprise like naughty children, but the man was smiling.

"Relax, I haven't come to serve a noise abatement order," he said.

"Although whoever mangled the C I heard walking up the corridor deserves one," The Crystal Singer added, to a laugh. Tornaz – the guilty party – was once again whacked on the arm by Pharisa.

"Having been tipped off that you were having a party, we've come to offer our congratulations on a very impressive haul – and a new approach to cutting, one which I intend to get behind," Dahl said.

"Get these people a drink!" Tornaz declared, and drinks were duly provided.

"You'll have to keep at it if you want to break any records, though," the Crystal Singer said.

"She holds most of them," Dahl added. "Which she _never_ reminds anyone of."

"How is it you do it, CS Daryaza?" Killashandra asked Pharisa. "Like this, I believe?" She whacked the Guildmaster on the arm – he feigned pain and shock, and everyone laughed.

"Seriously, though," she said, raising her glass, "well done. Not to sound like a motivational management course, but we need ideas like that and singers like you, you- what are you calling yourselves?"

Zyan patted his sleeve patch. "We're going with 'the Locusts', ma'am."

The Guildmaster smiled. "I'd heard the scuttlebutt. Nice move."

"Marin's idea," Zyan pointed at him.

"To the Locusts, then," Killashandra said, and a toast was drunk. She glanced at her wrist unit. "You know, I do believe I'm done for the day. I might have another of these, if these good people don't mind me crashing the party?"

"Of course not, sit down!" Was the general refrain. "Guildmaster?"

Lars shook his head, and handed his glass, untouched, to his partner. "Alas, duty calls. Zyan, how drunk are you right now?"

Zyan went very still inside for a moment. Well, Alenda had mentioned there would be a price. He could hardly complain when the bill came due.

"I wouldn't trust myself to retune a set of crystals, but I've been drunker," h replied. He was, in truth, not very drunk. The symbiote was proving remarkably resilient to the three glasses of wine he'd had.

"Could I borrow you for a bit? There's something I'd like your input on," the Guildmaster asked.

A couple of the Locusts gave vent to good natured jeering of the 'oooh, get him' variety.

"Sure, no problem," Zyan agreed.

It had been deftly done. The Crystal Singer would stay behind to reassure the others that Zyan wasn't in trouble while the Guildmaster neatly extracted him.

"I'll get him back to you as soon as poss," Dahl promised over his shoulder, as they left.

The Guildmaster kept the conversation on innocent matters as they walked together to the lifts and thence to his office – what his experience of cutting crystal had been like, how they'd organised themselves while they were on claim, and, with a twinkle in his eye, how they'd managed in the mornings.

Once they were in the outer office – again, deserted - and the doors were closed, his tone changed.

"At some point I will want to know more about how your team runs itself, so we can, hopefully, get other singers working together in the same way. We've got rather more pressing matters to deal with right now, though," he said.

"I figured, sir," Zyan replied.

"Through here, please."

The Guildmaster showed him into the inner office, which contained Alenda, seated demurely to one side of the desk. The components of Zyan's stun pistol were on the desk, alongside a stack of pencil files and some tablets.

"Zyan. Nice to see you again," she inclined her head.

"Hey Alenda," Zyan said. "Always a pleasure."

"Sit down, Zyan – there's coffee in the pot, there," the Guildmaster said as he sat down. "You're aware that something is up, and that Alenda is more than just our Chief of Legal, so I'll dispense with the pleasantries. The Heptite Guild is in serious trouble, and we want your help getting out of it."

"You've got it," Zyan said instantly.

Alenda looked at him. "You may wish to reconsider once you've heard what we have to say. We don't need the kind of help CS Jarvis the crystal singer can give us. We need Black Zyan."

Zyan nodded. "That's the impression I got last night, yes. So: the Guild has a problem. It's got something to do with a five-shaft set of black crystal, and at some point over the past few weeks this requirement became secret, because when you asked Borton if he'd cut a quintet you didn't mind the whole sorting area knowing about it. Vander is somehow involved and improvising explosives and field-stripping a stun pistol in under twenty seconds could be somehow helpful."

"How did you know Vander is involved?" The Guildmaster asked.

"I told you he was astute," Alenda said.

Zyan poured himself a coffee and leaned back in his chair. "When you're ready," he said.

 _Don't overdo it, Zyan._ Alenda raised an eyebrow to accompany the thought.

 _Sorry,_ he sent back.

\- o O o -

"Have you heard of the Federal Strategic Resources Act, Zyan?" The Guildmaster asked, a few moments later.

"Can't say I have," Zyan replied.

"You should have – it's also known as the Intilla Bill. It was drafted and passed in response to the Djielese crisis. Any number of influential guilds, corporations and representatives were crying out for intilla powder. They demanded the FSP do something. The FSP responded with the FSRA. Here's the headline phrase: 'In situations where the sufficient provision of a resource of interplanetary importance is considered to be under threat and a notification served to the legal authority in charge of said resource has been ignored or terms of said notification breached, the FSP may, with the agreement of a simple majority of the Session, deploy civilian and military assets in order to secure the sufficient provision of said resource in line with the existing legal obligations that pertain to the revocation of a planetary charter due to unavoidable danger to the ecosystem.'"

"Poetic," Zyan commented dryly.

The Guildmaster gave a snort of grim laughter. "Agreed. What it _means_ is that if a government isn't ensuring that something very important is getting out to the rest of the galaxy in sufficient quantity, then the FSP can tell them to get their act together or they'll have cruisers in orbit asking pointed questions as to what the problem is and marines landing on the surface to get the answers. You get a polite letter first, though. The Protectorate received the first one of these just after you made yourself famous by destroying a very important black crystal. I got _mine_ a few weeks back." The Guildmaster spun one of the tablets around and pushed it toward Zyan.

"But I haven't blown anything up for, well, _hours,_ " Zyan protested.

"Hilarious. This is serious, Zyan," Alenda reprimanded him.

"Sorry. I'm assuming the FSP has had enough of the crystal shortage and are trying to scare you into magically producing more of it. Didn't we just cut an absolute shed-load of black, though? That should be enough to keep them off your back for a while," Zyan said.

The Guildmaster laughed. "If only it was that simple. The FSP has been grumbling about the supply of crystal for _centuries_ , Zyan, and has done precisely nothing about it until a troublesome ex-revolutionary started causing a fuss."

"Um, sorry, but I've only been here like five minutes and-" Zyan started to say.

"I'm talking about _myself_ , Jarvis. Get over yourself and then go read a history book. The Optherian Uprising," the Guildmaster said heavily.

"Oh. Right." Zyan _had_ heard of it, and it had been _centuries_ ago. The Guildmaster had aged well – or rather: well, he hadn't aged.

"Here's what I mean by fuss." The Guildmaster clicked a remote, activating the screen above his desk again, and showing a line graph. It trended downwards for a very long time, then started to claw some altitude back towards the end of the scale.

"See that uptick? Me – pestering the FSP to be able to recruit. Next one - making hard and ethically questionable decisions about regression to try and save the guild. Next one – Killa's training drives. Next one – singers like Dane and Jolinda making the new methods work better than the old. It paid off – we started shipping more crystal out. And _that_ was my mistake."

"Come again?" Zyan was confused.

The Guildmaster overlaid a second line. "This line shows demand for products that compete with crystal." It crawled gradually upward, making progress as the Guild faltered – and then tanked as the Guild's line fought back.

"If you can't get crystal, you go for an alternative. It might be slower – it might even be more expensive and come with punitive contractual clauses – but it's always available and crystal isn't. There were a lot of people and organisations making a lot of money out of that situation."

Zyan twigged what the Guild's problem was. "This shadowy corporate conspiracy got a name?"

"Nothing so obvious," Alenda replied. "What they _do_ have, though, is political clout. For the first time in it's history, the Guild hasn't been able to influence a critical FSP decision favourably."

"My fault," Dahl said, sounding weary. "I didn't see it coming – I was concentrating solely on increasing output as a means to save the Guild. I didn't stop to think who that might annoy – apart from singers themselves."

"It wasn't your fault," Alenda told the Guildmaster, with considerable sympathy. "That kind of thinking doesn't come naturally to people like you."

"Dinosaurs?" Dahl asked.

"Idealists – the kind of people who _should_ be in charge of planets and guilds," Alenda corrected him firmly, with a hand on his shoulder, as if she was offering comfort to a family member rather than talking to her boss. Then she turned to Zyan. "Whoever our adversaries are, they've convinced the FSP to serve this notification, and they've even written some of it. There's an order for black – a big one, five matched shafts. A multi-system network connecting several industrialised systems. Four of them are mostly harmless, the fifth, on the other hand, is a cesspool. A long-standing civil unrest problem and an even longer-standing issue with the ruling families being cordially – but violently - at each other's throats."

The Guildmaster took up the story again. "We've ignored the order for decades because a) it's a dangerous place and b) the family in charge tends to change every few years, so who would we bill? However, the FSP has been encouraged to make the fulfillment of this long-standing order a condition of the Heptite Guild's autonomy. If we can't demonstrate we can start filling back orders – starting with this nest of vipers – then 'an organisation comprised of industry experts' will be assigned to 'provide managerial guidance' – we'll be managed right into the ground for as long as it takes me to convince the FSP that they made the wrong call, by which time I suspect it will be a moot point, as the Guild will have collapsed."

"Not ideal," Zyan replied.

"Quite," the Guildmaster agreed.

"You have one part of the puzzle, now, though – you've got quintets in stock again. Tell me why you can't just install one of them, give these guys the figurative finger, and- Vander's their inside man, isn't he?" Zyan made the sudden leap.

 _Very well done,_ Alenda inclined her head.

"Yes," the Guildmaster nodded. "Like you've also noticed, I only found out recently. What your shadowy corporate conspiracy is thankfully unaware of is that I have, well, let's call it an old family connection in FSP Intelligence. We help them from time to time," he said, glancing at Alenda as he spoke, which Zyan found interesting.

 _Be a good little boy and I might fill you in on that little slip,_ Alenda sent, with a smile.

 _Yes ma'am,_ Zyan thought back.

"I called in one of those favours. They've been considerate enough to share with us what they know of this situation – one facet of which was the existence of a mole within the guild," Dahl continued.

"I would've gone with Korzac," Zyan said.

"That was my thinking, too. His debts would provide perfect leverage," Alenda said.

"As a crystal singer, especially of the old school, he'd be desperate to get off planet when he could. Hard to do that with loan sharks waiting in orbit. So why Vander?" Zyan mused.

"That we _don't_ know. But as of yesterday, when you had your little stand off in the sorting area, I'm sure it's him," Alenda said.

The Guildmaster coughed. "This might be a little difficult to explain. Alenda, you see, has-"

"He knows, Lars," Alenda interrupted him.

"Oh, good." Dahl looked relieved.

"If the installation is common knowledge, Vander will inform the SCC, and-" Zyan said.

"SCC?" The Guildmaster cut in.

"Shadowy Corporate Conspiracy," Zyan supplied. "Shadowy enough, I take it, that your intel indicates if we tip our hand about the installation, they won't be averse to doing something drastic in order to make sure it doesn't succeed."

"The SCC has a group of people with a very specific skill set on retainer," Alenda said. "I know their reputation. It's _impressive_ , but it isn't _good_."

"Any chance of blowing the whistle?"

Alenda shook her head. "They'll be prepared for that. By itself, it won't work. It will be a useful second string to the primary op, but the bottom line is this: the crystal must be installed."

"How do you plan on guarding it once you've installed it?" Zyan asked.

"Not our problem," Dahl shrugged. "One message sent and received over the network and this goes away, for us. We're not liable if someone destroys or sabotages any of the communications hubs after the installation. We just have to prove we can deliver on our contractual obligations."

"Oh- _kay..."_ Zyan mused. "What if someone – some local enthusiast – was to do a bit of sabotage on one of the comms hubs _before_ a crystal singer went anywhere near it? The FSP can't enforce their notification if the installation is impossible."

"The thought did occur," Alenda said, with a certain amount of approval. "It woud have to _stay_ sabotaged, though – once it was repaired we'd be back to square one."

"And we're the good guys," Dahl said. "I won't stoop to that."

"Quite apart from the fallout if we were _caught_ – and I think we can assume they're looking," Alenda said.

"Any chance they might false-flag that, and blame it on us?" Zyan asked.

Alenda nodded. "A very good point which I'll factor in – but my instincts are telling me they won't risk the possible exposure and the attention that would result from our claiming otherwise. They need a nice simple failure of the Guild to fulfil our contract, not something we can spin."

"I can see you chose the right man," Dahl said.

"I hope so," Zyan said, and turned to Alenda. "I'm pretty good with improvised kit in the field, and I'm not averse to using a stunner on someone, but even I can see my primary usefulness for this is that I'm deniable. If I'm caught being violent on someone else's planet then, well, it's Black Zyan, isn't it? What did you expect? We kicked him out of the Guild two weeks ago for using an illegal weapon on another guildmember. Sorry an' all but he _is_ a fugitive."

"Zyan, it's not like that, we-" The Guildmaster started saying.

 _Nicely summed up. Can you work with that?_ Alenda sent.

 _I can_ , Zyan replied. _Do you have an ops plan?_

 _I do,_ Alenda sent. _But I'm open to suggestions for improvement_.

 _This isn't something we should discuss in front of the Guildmaster_ , Zyan thought. _Not much point in giving him deniability if we then discuss all the details in his presence._

 _I quite agree,_ Alenda said.

"-we just need someone on the ground who can think on their feet and who's capable of defending himself, should the need arise," Dahl finished.

"I understand," Zyan told him.

"With your permission, Guildmaster, I'll continue the briefing in my office," Alenda said.

Dahl nodded. "Of course. Here." He pushed the disassembled stunner across the desk towards Zyan. "All things considered, I think you'd better have this back."

\- o O o -

Alenda's office was only a few steps away. It was smaller and her desk was tidier – she went to stand behind it, but did not sit down straight away.

"Why are you so keen to volunteer, Zyan?" She asked.

"The Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer, plus a few other people I've met, seem like good people. They're trying to turn this place into something better than it is and I want them to be able to keep at it. But mostly because of you," Zyan answered.

"We've barely spoken more than a few times,"Alenda replied.

"That was all I needed," Zyan told her.

Alenda wasn't the blushing type. "Thank you," she said. "You deserve some answers, I think – about me."

"Tell me only what you need to," Zyan said. "You know how this works. The more I know the more I can give away."

"Was that how it was in the Djielese Rebellion?" Alenda asked.

"Yeah – for good reason," Zyan replied.

"I know – but that's not how I want things to go between us. To begin with, there is something I have wanted to do for a while."

Alenda came out from behind the desk, moving with her usual graceful assurance. Her hands came up to his cheeks, pulling his lips down to hers for a kiss. It went on for some time.

"I have wanted to do that too," Zyan said, when they parted. "But don't we have a briefing to get through?"

Alenda swept her desk clear with one arm and pulled Zyan back towards it. "The briefing can wait."

Zyan was in complete agreement.

\- o O o -

The briefing was continued in Alenda's bedroom, some time later. It felt right, being with her. Zyan didn't think either of them were the type to fall head over heels in love, but certainly he was completely relaxed in her intimate company, and she with him. Relaxed enough to give him the answers she'd promised.

"I was an FSP intelligence officer, in my previous life – my family have been involved in it for generations," she admitted. "As a girl, though, I thought I was going to go my own way, and studied for a degree in Interplanetary Law. I'd practiced for only a short time before I realised it wasn't for me. A law degree gets one into the FSP training programs, however, and blood will out: it turned out I was good at intelligence work. I rose quickly within the agency – and then, on what was supposed to be my final mission as a field agent, I was unfortunate enough to get in the way of some experimental nanotech. Nasty stuff – my eyesight was the first thing to go, then my hearing, then feeling in my extremities. I was a husk by the time they finally managed to clear it all out. The doctors could only communicate with me by tapping on a certain area on my back – it was the only place that had any nerves left."

That sounded horrible, and Zyan told her so.

"There was no cure – and constant pain. I instructed the doctors to put my affairs in order and end it – but one of my colleagues had another idea. He got in touch with a distant relative of mine – a great, great, great uncle. Lars Dahl, Guildmaster of the Heptite Guild on Ballybran," Alenda explained.

"You're related to the Guildmaster?" Zyan was surprised. "Wow. Somehow I don't see crystal singers as family types."

"Most aren't, but the Guildmaster is different. He's maintained ties with his family, through the decades. It's not all sentiment, I'm sure – you've just heard how useful having a connection with FSP Intelligence can be," Alenda said. "My colleague had worked with a crystal singer on one of those odd little jobs I alluded to before, so he knew about the Ballybran symbiote and it's capabilities. When all else fails, patients are occasionally brought to Ballybran as a last ditch, kill-or-cure attempt: you've met Donalla in medical? Similar story. My colleague got a message through to the Guildmaster who made the arrangements. I was offered the option and I took it."

"And it worked," Zyan said.

"It worked. I don't remember having any kind of a transition at all. I was weak and in pain – I welcomed the spore whether it was going to make me better or finish me off. I got my sense of touch back first, then my hearing – but my sight never came back. I counted my blessings: there was no more pain and after a while I felt _good_ , better than I remembered feeling before the nano accident. I learned to read neobraille and went back to being a lawyer. A few months went by, and then I started sensing my surroundings. Donalla suggested I might be developing echolocation skills, but it wasn't that. I thought perhaps my sight might be returning, but it was clear my eyes had nothing to do with it, because I could see almost as well directly behind me as I could in front."

"Almost?"

"Yes. You've noticed that I still look at people when they talk to me: that's why. Donalla thinks it's purely psychological, but I have my doubts. I can't see colours, or through plasglas, but the level of detail was greater than I'd ever had with my eyes."

"You've got radar," Zyan said.

"Of a sort, yes, so it would seem," Alenda said. _And then the voices started._

"You were hearing people's thoughts?"

Alenda nodded. "It started when I was off planet, visiting home. At first I thought people were just speaking to me, but their lips weren't moving and when I answered them I got some very strange looks. I kept it as much to myself as possible and returned to Ballybran to ask Donalla about it, but she doesn't have a scientific explanation for why I can 'see', let alone how the telepathy works. We keep working on it."

"No denying it's very useful."

"It has it's pros and cons. I have to work very hard to suppress it - most of the time I'd rather not have everyone else's thoughts taking up space in my mind." Alenda wrinkled her nose. "On the other hand, I always know if someone is lying to me – lying has a very distinctive signature - and I have a general idea what they're thinking about."

 _And the sending thoughts thing, when did that happen?_

"You're shouting again," Alenda said.

"Sorry. This is tricky."

"You're telling me. To answer your question, I started to realise I had sending as well as receiving capabilities in the last five years or so," Alenda answered. "Just as with sensing thoughts, it's easier with some people than with others. Please understand that I keep usage of it to a bare minimum."

"Because ethics?"

"Because self preservation," Alenda said. "There is no formal registration program for telepaths because I'm the only one: there is for empaths, but I'm given to understand their gift is different. I'm registered as an empath with the FSP because it deflected attention and provided a convenient cover story for what's really going on. I keep as low a profile as possible - only Donalla, the Crystal Singer, the Guildmaster and now you know the truth about me."

"Seems wise to keep it need to know," Zyan said. "Why did you reveal yourself to me?"

Alenda stopped to think. "I know my secret is safe with you: I knew it the moment I met you."

"Well, I suppose you _would_ know: but secrets aren't always safe with people – even the ones who'd take them to the grave," Zyan pointed out.

"Normally I'd agree – but let's assume the worst happens, you're captured and someone uses a modified pain threshhold sensor on you. You'd laugh it off," Alenda said.

"You've done your homework," Zyan noted. He didn't mind her knowing. "Not everyone's that advanced. Some just get the pliers out."

"You're a crystal singer, now," Alenda laid a finger on his chest. "Everything grows back."

"Really?" Zyan was amazed.

"Really. You weren't told?"

"Full disclosure, well, isn't," Zyan said.

"You are quite correct. It's revised every year and yet we still always manage to leave something out. You have had a Full Disclosure about _me_ , though – I can promise you that."

"You didn't have to." Zyan told her.

"I felt I owed it to you. You are about to risk a lot for the Guild – largely, as you have yourself admitted, because of me," Alenda said.

"I'm also not in a guild cell because you kept me out of it," Zyan said. "And how _much_ I'm about to risk depends on the ops plan."

"Yes, the plan," Alenda said, then felt her wrist unit. "As much as I'd like to return to our previous diversions, we really should get to that."

"I'll get dressed." Zyan said.

"Oh, no need for _that_." Alenda smiled. "It's cosy under the covers. Just pay attention and let me know if you have anything to suggest."

"Gotcha. Go."

"The contract is for five installations, but the main one I'm worried about is in a system called Chalice…" Alenda began.


	15. Chapter 15

_The plan depends on misdirection. We need the SCC to be looking the wrong way as much as possible. Your idea to use two singers rather than one is a good one, Zyan, but I have a refinement._

 _Go on._

 _The other four installations are in safe, stable, civilised systems. The SCC is highly unlikely to stage an intervention anywhere but the primary target, which is almost legendarily corrupt. To deflect notice away from our operations there, why not use someone who's really good at attracting attention?_

 _You're not thinking about who I think you're thinking about, are you?_

 _I am._

 _I thought the Guildmaster said this was volunteer only?_

 _Persuade her._

\- o O o -

Zyan pressed the entry buzzer and announced himself as 'CS Jarvis, on Guild business, I'm not armed and actually not even that annoyed any more.'

Nothing happened. Jarvis pressed it again: "You can talk to me here, or you can get summoned up to the Guildmaster's office. It's not about what you think."

Shecherzia's door panel slid aside a moment later - only enough to reveal a narrow sliver of face, which was suspicious.

"Are you here for violent purposes, Jarvis?" She asked.

"Nope, I'm here about a job, as it happens. Your boyfriend in?" Zyan asked her.

"No. That position _is_ now vacant, but I'll be frank: it's a bit above your pay grade. Good day, feel free to never come back again," she began to close the door.

"So you're not interested in carrying out a prestigious black crystal installation for a hoofing great fee. Okay, fine," Zyan said.

The door stopped. "Such assignments are awarded by the Guildmaster, not barely-qualified neophytes." Her eyes narrowed.

Zyan said nothing.

"How 'hoofing great' is hoofing great?" She asked, finally.

"There's conditions," Zyan said.

"I don't doubt it. The fee, Jarvis?"

"Fifty K," Zyan said.

She really was an excellent actress. Her eyes did not widen, there was no intake of breath.

"Meet me in the commons in ten minutes," she said. "You're buying, Mr. 50K. Harmat, on the rocks."

\- o O o -

Harmat turned out to be peach coloured. Based on what it cost, Zyan guessed it was made by unicorns out of fermented diamonds and the tears of fallen angels. When Shecherzia arrived at Zyan's table in the corner of the commons, she drained the entire glass and demanded a refill before even sitting down. Zyan dialled for one, then placed a small black box on the tabletop, borrowed from the Guildmaster.

Shecherzia raised an eyebrow. "I haven't done an interview in a very long time, Jarvis, you won't find a network willing to pay for a recording of this."

"Someone might," Zyan told her. "This little gadget means that won't happen."

"I gave up _drama_ before you left school, Jarvis," Shecherzia sighed, and deigned to sit down. "The walls _don't_ have ears, here – unless you're talking about a nice juicy claim. What's so hush-hush, anyway? Lots of singers angle for every installation job that comes up, but they're hardly state secrets."

The next harmat slid out of the dispenser. "You can _sip_ that one." Zyan told her.

"Tightwad," she accused him airily, but didn't finish it in one go.

Zyan took a drink of his own beverage: Yarran beer. "This one is secret, kinda. Know a system called Chalice?"

"I filmed there on location, once – Chalice Prime. It was corrupt and the rulers were venal scum who cared not a jot for the welfare of their citizens as long as their lives of idle luxury continued uninterrupted – I think one of them _literally built_ an ivory tower to live in: cloned up a few thousand elephants just so he could kill them for their tusks. Decadence is an art form, on Chalice Prime. I was deliriously happy, of course. Considered emigrating," Shecherzia informed him.

"Well, by all accounts it hasn't changed. That's the system that's being lined up for the king crystal out of a recent five shaft cut."

" _Your_ recent five shaft cut." Shecherzia pointed out.

"Let's not make a thing about that. The other four go to entirely average systems which are completely devoid of towers constructed from the teeth of murdered animals, or so I understand."

"So far, so what?" Shecherzia asked, sipping again.

"Well, it's going to be a bit of an iffy installation. It's controversial, not everyone wants it to happen," Zyan continued.

Shecherzia yawned.

"Hmm: tough crowd," Zyan remarked. "Fine, little miss impress-me-not. Several someones – can't say who so don't ask, but heavy hitters – are looking to stop the installation from going ahead. They're likely to resort to violence to make sure it doesn't happen."

"Then I strongly suggest the Guildmaster vetoes the order. If the Chalicians want their crystal that badly, they can deal with these 'someones' first."

"No can do – the crystal has to be installed, and soon. This is not something we can bow out of. The consequences to the Guild would be unacceptable." Zyan said.

"I see. Well, unless you have a really very impressive plan worked out that will ensure none of that violence is likely to affect _me_ , I am, as they say, out of here," Shecherzia picked up her drink, clearly with the intention of finishing it.

"Oh, there's a plan."

Shecherzia looked at him coolly. Zyan told her the part of the plan he wanted her to think was her part of the plan.

"Absolutely not!" She said, after listening.

"It'll be fun!" Zyan said.

"It'll be deadly, you idiot!" She retorted.

"Seriously, come on. You'll have a bodyguard: Aviczue's one of us, so you'll have a _superhuman_ bodyguard, in fact. It's safe as houses. It's _acting_. You were an actress. I saw one of your films, even. It was great, the one with the aliens and the ship and that line that everyone kept quoting for _years_ , what was it, you point the gun at the bad guy and say it-" Zyan snapped his fingers and furrowed his brows.

"I'm sorry to inform you the invasion is cancelled, General," Shecherzia replied.

"Boom, there you go. Cinema gold."

"Please _stop_ trying to massage my ego, Jarvis: you lack the subtlety to do it properly," Shecherzia told him acidly. "You were much more fun when you were trying to be bitingly sarcastic and _almost_ succeeding."

"I have more practice at that, to be fair. Listen, I really need you to take this assignment. You, not just any Singer qualified to install blacks: I need the legendary screen diva who grabs and holds attention. You're not the type to respond to an appeal to duty to the Guild, so I won't bother, but if we don't get this done, the Guild is over. Maybe not this year, maybe not this decade, but we gotta think longer term than that, haven't we? We're stuck with the future, here, for _centuries_. If you like being a Crystal Singer, with the prestige of the Heptite Guild behind you – if you like being extraordinary and different and standing out from the crowd - then you'll do this. Because if you don't, new management is going to be foisted on us. They won't come down here: they'll run things from Shankill or even further away. They won't see us as special. They'll just see us as unskilled miners who do a few weeks' work and then disappear off for really long holidays. They'll seize all claims in the name of _efficiency_ , and we'll just be _paid_ to cut crystal. You won't be a Crystal Singer any more, you'll be a worker. A wage slave. _Ordinary_." Zyan finished his speech and leaned back. He had no idea if any of what he'd said was true or not. Possibly.

Her face was still a mask of disinterest, but Zyan knew, now, that it _was_ a mask. If there was one thing Shecherzia Alar couldn't stomach, it was being ordinary.

"I'll be checking all this with the Guildmaster, of course," Shecherzia told him.

 _Gotcha,_ Zyan thought.

\- o O o -

 _Now you just have to talk Aviczue into being her bodyguard._

 _I have an approach all worked out for that._

 _\- o O o -_

"Absolutely not," Aviczue said. "She's a hateful self-centred cow convinced she's the sole reason for the existence of the universe."

"I know – it's what makes her so perfect for her role," Zyan said.

"Her partner nearly killed Marin!" Aviczue protested.

"Ex-partner: she gave him the boot. I think she was genuinely terrified when Korzac flipped. But yes, true again."

"And she flew off and left you both to get blown up!" Aviczue added.

"Bang on the money. Want to know how these are all reasons _why_ you should take the assignment rather than not?" Zyan asked.

"There's nothing you could say that would convince me to take this assignment," Aviczue said.

"I bet you the next round of drinks you say yes," Zyan said.

"Ha! You're on," Aviczue crowed.

"I have told the Guildmaster to make it very clear to her that she will not receive one half credit of her fee if she does not do absolutely everything you tell her to, down to the very last detail. This will include, at your discretion, _punishing_ security regimes in order to keep her safe. It's a long trip from Ballybran to Chalice, via the four systems getting one of the crystals. That's a whole lot of time for payback."

Aviczue smiled. "My round, then. What're you having?"

\- o O o -

 _The kind of covert infiltration you're proposing can't be done by just anyone, you know. You have impressive improvisational skills with electronics, but a black crystal comms node is one of the most complex pieces of machinery known to humankind._

 _I know a guy. And a girl._

\- o O o -

"Between the two of you, you're experts on computer security and crystal comms equipment. This is knowledge I don't have, but will need," Zyan told Tornaz and Pharisa.

"Sounds dangerous, Zyan," Tornaz said. "Can't the Guildmaster appeal to the FSP instead?"

"He already _is_ : but we're up against the ropes already. It's this or bye-bye Heptite Guild. As for the danger: nobody goes on the surface except me. You two I need in a ship in orbit – a ship with diplomatic immunity - for technical backup only."

"Zyan, this all sounds awfully underhanded," Pharisa said. Despite bona-fides from the Guildmaster and Alenda that Zyan was acting with the full knowledge (give or take) and authority (for now) of the Guild, she was rightly concerned.

"So is what the SCC is trying to do, to protect it's profits," Zyan said. "They've forced our hand on this."

"It's impossible to just break into a facility like this anyway. I'd need full system access, schematics, every single login and password. Believe me, I know how hard it is. I _built_ them," Tornaz said.

"And I've done the security for one or two. He's right," Pharisa said. "It's also illegal, which you haven't mentioned yet."

"That's because it isn't. By treaty with Chalice, the Heptite Guild has full ownership rights of the facility and all the equipment in it until the installation has been completed. Any member of the Heptite Guild is allowed access to the facility at any time, without having to provide notice or reason – and we _have_ full system access, schematics and every single login and password. Alenda negotiated hard for this, because she knew we'd need it. I could waltz in there and out again any time I wanted," Zyan told them.

Pharisa frowned. "Then why do you need to break in – and why do you need us?"

"That's the clever bit," Zyan said – then told them the clever bit.

"We're in," they said, together.

\- o O o -

 _You can't be seen going between the B &B and the surface. You need a go-between – someone who can pilot a shuttle. I'm assuming you'll want to ask CS Janso?_

 _Yes. He's absolutely trustworthy._

 _He's also ethically...inflexible._

 _You say that like it's a bad thing._

 _It might be, given the situation._

 _I know him and trust him._

 _Very well. At least he'll be easy to convince._

 _Really? I was expecting it to be difficult._

 _Have a chat with him and let me know when I'm right._

 _\- o O o -_

"Marin, I've got a favour to ask – for the Guild and for me, personally. You see-" Zyan began.

"Aviczue already told me to go with you and make sure you don't get killed. What do you need?" Marin said, and that was that.

\- o O o -

With the team assembled it was time to set things in motion, the first part of which was to prime Vander with disinformation. Knowing someone was a mole and keeping the flow of information through them under control was often, Alenda said, more useful than simply shutting it off.

The first thing that happened - while the guild cube was still safely shut up against the storm - was that Korzac was approached by the Guildmaster and asked to accompany him. No reason was given for this - it happened very publicly in the commons - but the propensity of guildmembers to gossip worked very effectively to convey the rumour that Korzac was suspected of passing commercially confidential information to the guild's competitors: no doubt as a means of paying off the gambling debts that nobody at all knew about. Shecherzia proved her worth to the mission by playing the martyr with consummate perfection: her good nature had been shamefully - _shamefully_ \- exploited by her former partner. She had been betrayed and humiliated. Zyan actually began to feel genuine sympathy for her.

Vander sent an enquiry to an off-planet tourism agency almost immediately, asking about kayaking holidays on a world renowned for it's rivers.

"Clever," Alenda had remarked. "Looking into going off planet is the one reason crystal singers bother to interact with the rest of the FSP. It's a perfect way for Vander to communicate with his handlers without arousing suspicion."

Convincing Vander that Korzac had taken a fall for him was the easy part: the next step was trickier.

"We have to behave as if we're trying to keep this secret until Shecherzia and Aviczue leave the planet, but Vander has to find out," had been Alenda's briefing.

Shecherzia, once again, proved to have an answer. After a day or so had been allowed to go by, she went to Vander's quarters in tears, rent by guilt that she had taken a black crystal installation job that could have gone to him. He had been in danger from Korzac and Zyan both, because she had not been able to see Korzac for the dangerous man he was, but instead of paying him back she had poached the installation job. She desperately needed the fee, even though the Guildmaster had said it could be dangerous. Could he find it in his heart to forgive her?

"He was more solicitous of my well being than he ever had been before, the little creep," Shecherzia said afterward. "I gave him the details you told me to, no more."

Vander made enquiries about diving in the coral seas of Pretoria V as soon as he'd seen a tearful Shecherzia out of his door, followed by an expensive interplanetary call: an encrypted one. Clearly someone wanted that information very badly.

Zyan didn't find this out until much later, though: along with most of the team, he was already on the way to Chalice Prime.

\- o O o -

Shecherzia left Ballybran with five shafts of black crystal: what she didn't know was that only four of them were part of the quintet. The fifth was an interloper: the king crystal from a triad. Alenda had wanted to use a fake, such as would be used to practice an installation, but Zyan had warned against it: Shecherzia was sensitive to black crystal, and would know immediately. They'd be lucky, in fact, if Shecherzia didn't detect that one of her crystals was an interloper – if so, Aviczue would clue her in and they'd just have to rely on the actress' dramatic talents to provide the necessary realism.

The real king crystal was with Zyan, Marin, Tornaz and Pharisa aboard the _CM1244_.

"Do you change your designation when you haven't got your brawn aboard?" Zyan asked Marcus, shortly after settling a Heptite Guild shuttle into Marcus' small craft bay – it was a tight fit. Chaka was indeed not aboard, but was off getting training with the FSP Exploration and Evaluation Corps: Marcus and Chaka intended to do a 5-year stint with them. Zyan was quite glad: if she had fancied a renewal of their previous whirlwind relationship, it would've been awkward.

"Not if it's temporary, old chum," Marcus replied. "Wouldn't want herself getting jealous. You seem to have come up in the world, by the way, CS Jarvis. Congratulations."

"Right bloke in the right place at the right time – but thanks anyway," Zyan replied. "Allow me to introduce CS Daryaza, CS Molovsky and CS Janso, aka Pharisa, Tornaz and Marin, aka my friends. Guys, welcome aboard the _CM1244_ , aka Marcus."

"It is an honour indeed to meet you, Marcus. I have not yet had the privilege of being aboard a B&B ship," Marin said.

"Oh I like him," Marcus said.

The others also said hello, and Marcus informed them he'd already broken orbit.

"Travel time to the Chalice system is three days," Marcus said. "Also, not that temporary Heptite Guild diplomatic immunity isn't a signal honour, but would you care to let me know why such unusual measures have been deemed necessary?"

"Certainly, Marcus. Brace yourself," Zyan took a breath. "A shadowy conspiracy comprising of at least one and possibly all of the corporations whose products compete with spican quartz has put the fix in at the FSP to make the Heptite Guild's autonomy and future in general dependent on the black crystal installation we're supposed to be undertaking in the Chalice system, and have retained the services of some unscrupulous ruffians to sabotage it somehow. If they succeed they get to take over the Guild and probably run it into the ground to create an oligopoly in interplanetary comms tech for themselves. We're the point team tasked with preventing said sabotage in order to preserve the freedom of our planet – and as a kicker, I'm hoping to unmask said conspiracy so the FSP as a whole can see what nasty underhanded little profitmongers they are. We were hoping you'd be okay with hanging around in orbit with diplomatic immunity for the duration of festivities so that Pharisa and Tornaz – who are peaceful sorts unused to the sort of hurly-burly Marin and I are familiar with – have a safe place to work on the totally legal things we'll be doing. I've got an ops plan, an intel brief and various legal guarantees from the Guild which you're welcome to read. If you don't like it you can just deliver us there and leave orbit with no hard feelings and the original fee in your account. If you're okay with it, though, there's a hefty bonus in it for you plus the undying gratitude of the Heptite Guild," Zyan explained.

That gave Marcus pause. "Are you having a laugh?"

"I'm completely serious," Zyan told him.

"Show me what you have, then," Marcus asked.

He took a couple of hours to read through it and, presumably, mull it over.

"Well – you do like to make life interesting, Zyan," he remarked afterwards.

"I really don't," Zyan replied. "I'd _love_ to have a nice boring life and thus not introduce aggressively obnoxious levels of interest into other people's, but it just keeps on not happening, unfortunately."

"I have, however, elected to provide you with my most valuable services as orbiting embassy. If this is nothing but paranoia then I'll have lost nothing, if there is something to your suspicions then I shall have assisted in some minor way in combating corruption and corporate chicanery. Chaka feels strongly about that sort of thing. There is, also, the minor matter of the bonus. One does so hate to be crude about pecuniary matters but _wow_ that is a lot of money," Marcus laughed.

"Well, the Guild feels strongly about that sort of thing, too," Zyan said. "Thanks, Marcus, glad to have you on board."

"Isn't it rather the other way round?" Marcus asked.

"Figure of speech," Zyan shrugged.

\- o O o -

The Chalice system really _was_ a cesspool. It had the double misfortunes of being rich in resources and predating the FSP: it was, in fact, one of the founder worlds. This meant that all sorts of undemocratic practices that would not be tolerated in the charters of newer FSP worlds had been grandfathered in: the FSP had been far less choosy in it's infancy. Chalice was, effectively, a feudal system – it was democratic on paper, but in practice all of the seats on the planetary council were controlled by one (or more, if the representatives were greedy enough to desire two sets of bribes) of the eight Grand Families, usually referred to as the Octocracy. The Chancellor of the system was a mere figurehead: all the real decisions were made by whichever of the families, or alliances thereof, currently held the upper hand in the centuries-long game of chess they all played. The only good thing you could really say about Chalice was that you were technically at liberty to leave if you wanted, even if this wasn't free: a few bribes to the right people were required to obtain a no-questions-asked travel permit. A major Chalician export was disgusted Chalicians who'd had enough and left to become colonists, members of intergalactic guilds (the Heptite Guild had eighteen Chalician members) or simply settle _anywhere_ else.

For those who remained, Chalice offered a future of either privilege or, if you weren't so fortunate, indentured servitude in a factory, mine or field.

This state of affairs pertained on all of the Chalice system's inhabited worlds and multifarious habitats, but the jewel in this crown of thorns was undoubtedly Chalice Prime, the world that was first settled. At the economic and political centre of Chalice Prime was New Babylon, it's sprawling capital, home and battleground for the octocrats. At the centre of New Babylon stood the newly built Planetary Communications Centre – the tallest building in a city of very tall buildings. It was, inevitably, called the Tower of Babylon. At it's very top could be found a chamber, surrounded by the very best in security, within which was a set of brackets awaiting the installation of the king crystal.

It was exactly the kind of place you'd choose to stage a bit of corporate sabotage. Like the politicans, the police were little more than an extension of the octocracy and did their bidding largely without question. There would be no hassles with law enforcement as long as you greased the right palms, and Zyan didn't doubt that those palms had been thoroughly greased. The policeman, he could assume, was not his friend.

He had other allies in mind.

\- o O o -

Chalician space traffic control were every bit as bent as Zyan could have wished. A bit of credit transferred to the right account bought you a permit to land anywhere in the mercantile port area you wanted for a week and offload blessedly vague 'trade goods'.

"I should remind you this is your last chance to change your mind," Marin told him, as they touched down in their hastily resprayed shuttle.

"Is there an echo in here? I can hear Aviczue," Zyan replied.

"Nonetheless, the point stands," Marin stated.

"That's a negative on mission abort, Janso," Zyan told him with a grin.

"Understood," Marin nodded seriously.

"If everything goes according to plan, I'll radio for pickup. If it doesn't, well, this is probably the last time we'll speak for a very long time," Zyan said. "Stay safe."

"You too," Marin said.

Zyan cycled the hatch and jumped out, suppressing a smile. He actually felt pretty good. When he got his first whiff of Chalician air – laden with pollutants and particulate matter – he felt a bit less so, but the feeling passed.

Customs, at one of the port exits, was a matter of flashing your permit at the black-clad guards.

"First time?" One of them asked him, noting the permit's vague nature. He was a portly, dishevelled looking sort who could do with a shave.

"Yep," Zyan said.

"Clearance fees are ten percent of whatever you make – payable to us. Don't short us, we'll know, and that permit will disappear really quickly. The tax people have a whole 'nother scale and you don't want to get involved with them, believe me. So, what's your business?" The guard asked.

"Crystal," Zyan replied truthfully.

"You work for the Heptite Guild?" The guard asked.

"My operations are of a more modest nature," Zyan replied. "Reconditioned and rebalanced sets, comunit sizes mostly. All above board, of course. Are you in the market, at all? Got my inventory right here."

The guard held up a hand. "You can keep your shonky offcuts – we work in cash."

"Not a problem, but I'm not likely to close any deals on my first trip," Zyan replied, on the basis that a real smuggler wouldn't be too quick to pay.

"We're not unreasonable, but don't make it too long before you show a percentage, okay?" The guard told him, and waved him through a sensor arc - a broken one.

It was, conveniently, bright and sunny: this gave Zyan an excuse to slip on a big pair of shades.

"Comms check," He muttered.

"Loud and clear," Tornaz's voice sounded in his ears - literally crystal clear. Black crystal comunits were ferociously expensive, and usually reserved for Fleet special forces: they were 100% reliable, at least over surface-to-orbit ranges, 100% undetectable and 0% subject to shielding or eavesdropping. Fortunately for Zyan, one of the Locusts' cuts had been the right spec for a backordered set, which had conveniently gone missing for a few days.

"Picture quality?" There was a camera built into the sunglasses. Zyan would have killed for kit like this on Djiel.

"Brilliant. I can see just how bland it is down there in perfect HD," Tornaz told him.

Tornaz was right: the area around the mercantile port was just one warehouse after another: the towers and spires of New Babylon were just a few grey lines in the distance. Fortunately one thing Chalice Prime had was reasonably reliable public transport: Zyan hopped into a vac tube and was in the midst of the city in a matter of minutes.

Not all disaffected Chalicians chose to leave the system - some stayed and argued for change. The octocracy regarded them variously as a nuisance or a threat and their leading members were subject to harassment and arrest. Faced with such attitudes, they had organised into the Chalician People's Front, who organised demonstrations and, if the octocracy media was to be credited, terrorist attacks. Their political wing was called simply the Justice Party and boasted a grand total of one representative in the planetary assembly, from a constituency called Outer Sumantra without much money but plenty of loyalty at the ballot box. The octocracy chose not to gerrymander it out of existence so they could tell the FSP with a vaguely straight face that the political opposition had some representation on Chalice, and also, presumably, just for better-the-devil-you-know considerations. The representative's name was Thedor Bavis, and Zyan's current objective was to arrange a meeting with him or, possibly preferable, a high ranking CPF apparatchik. The FSP intelligence briefing listed a few names and faces, and a few places they were known to hang out. Zyan planned to stick his face round the door of them, and hope he was still notorious enough as an infamous anti-hegemony figure that he wouldn't be dismissed as an agent of the octocracy.

He'd expected a bit of a slog, but in the event it was almost laughably easy.

\- o O o -

New Babylon was equal parts heaven and hell.

The city was almost as tall as it was wide. The sunlit portions of it were given over to the octocratic elites. They lived in luxury, almost in the clouds. Below them, in their shadow, lived their hangers-on, favoured employees and servants.

Everyone else lived down in what was literally called the Twilight Zone, or just the TZ. No sunlight filtered down here and nothing grew. It was a maze of apartment blocks, bars, clubs and, further down, the modern equivalent of hovels and shacks, shot through with the veins and nervous system of the city: plumbing, power, transport.

For all it's autocratic nature Djiel had primarily been an agrarian planet - even Djielonia wasn't a very big city, boasting only a half million or so inhabitants. Zyan had to start fighting off claustrophobia as the train arrowed between buildings and buttresses, plunging straight into the heart of the TZ. He was glad to alight at the imaginatively named Stop B56 and proceed on foot to the Balalaika Bar.

New Babylon didn't just have streets – it had a multi-level framework of them, crammed with humanity, music, food stalls, commerce and – if you went down deep enough, but not too deep – the promise of forbidden attractions. Aircars hissed above, below and beside all of these thronged gantries in never-ending streams.

"This place is _intense,_ " Tornaz remarked.

 _You're telling me_ , Zyan thought, but he was in a crowded street – no place to talk to oneself, or look as if you were.

A neon sign in the shape of the bar's eponymous instrument made it hard to miss – it wasn't far from B56, just across the street-gantry and left a little. Zyan ducked gratefully inside, away from all the bustle. It was early evening in New Babylon – the bar was far from empty, but you wouldn't call it busy. Like a microcosm of the city outside, it was split into three levels, with walkways criss-crossing between them. Downstairs was the bar and dancefloor – upstairs was seating.

Zyan eased himself into a barstool.

"Evenin'. What'll it be?" The barman asked.

"Yarran beer," Zyan said, the first thing that came to mind. The barman nodded and fished out a bottle from a fridge behind him. Zyan passed his (doctored) wrist unit across the reader.

"Thanks," he said. "Looking for a bloke name of Othello. You know him?"

The barman shook his head. "No." He picked up a rag and headed back to the glasses he'd been polishing, but a few moments later he keyed a comm.

He spoke quietly – but not quietly enough to evade a crystal singer's hearing. "Some guy asking for Othello at the bar. Seems vaguely familiar."

Zyan couldn't quite make out the reply, apart from the words 'cop' and 'infiltrate'.

"Don't think so. Looks offworld. Dunno where he's familiar from. The news maybe? Anyway, he ain't going anywhere," the barman said. The connection was cut from the other end.

A few minutes went by. Zyan drank his beer. Light footsteps approached him from behind: two sets. He felt a pressure in his back.

"Stay calm and don't move – this close, a stun bolt'll leave a very nasty burn and cause permanent nerve damage," a man's voice said, young.

Tornaz and Pharisa, to their credit, maintained radio silence upon hearing this.

"Believe me, I _know_. Leave the safety on, yeah? This is my favourite jacket," Zyan replied.

"You're looking for Othello." A woman's voice, again young.

"I'm looking for Othello," Zyan confirmed.

"We find that somewhat suspicious," the male voice said.

"Oddly enough, the stunner jammed into my kidneys tipped me off to that," Zyan told him flatly.

"No more jokes," the male voice said. "Juliet – anything?"

"He's clean – no signals," Juliet replied.

"Lemme guess – you must be Romeo. Cute," Zyan said, unable to help himself.

"I said no more jokes," Romeo reminded him.

"That was more what you might call sarcasm. No punchline, you see, which is kinda the definition of a j-" Zyan started to reply.

"If you want to see Othello, stop being a smartass," Juliet interrupted flatly.

"Fair enough."

"We're going for a little ride. Get up and leave the bar. Keep your hands at your sides, but away from your pockets. There's an airvan outside. Get in the back. If you do anything stupid, out the door you'll go, and we don't care if we're airborne or not at the time," Romeo stated.

"Right you are," Zyan finished his beer, got up and left the bar in the manner specified. Romeo and Juliet followed him, keeping out of his line of sight at all times.

As advertised, there was an airvan waiting outside – it was dented, scruffy and off-white in colour. The door was open. Zyan stepped in, followed by Romeo and Juliet, and the door was closed behind them. Moments later the van lifted off.

It was dimly lit inside by a single light on the ceiling. The van came with seating down each side. Romeo and Juliet sat down next to a third figure on one side.

"Sit down," the figure told him.

Zyan eased himself into the seating on the opposite side, which was much patched. It also smelt unpleasantly musty to Zyan's elevated senses. The flipside of that was the dimness, which was presumably arranged to conceal the identity of his hosts, didn't bother him in the slightest.

Juliet was a young, sharp-faced, pale girl with black hair dressed in casual wear and a jacket, Romeo was equally young and pale, but blond. The third man was older, with greying hair and a lined face. This matched the surveillance images of Othello, who was a senior cell commander in the CPF. The intel brief said he was a moderate who favoured direct action against the octocracy, but only if there was no risk of collateral damage.

"I'm Othello. Talk," the man said.

Zyan couldn't see much point in lying – and he'd had his jammer switched on since he entered the bar.

"My name is Zyan Jarvis," he said.

"No way," Romeo said. "He's on Djiel. Lie to us again and I'll shove you out the door."

Zyan gave the boy a dirty look and wished he'd try. "If I set foot on Djiel again they'd chuck me in prison," Zyan said. "I'm in the Heptite Guild now, and I have an unofficial business proposition for you."

"I had heard that Black Zyan was exiled from Djiel. I also heard the judgement was overturned by the new government. All Djielese are free to return home, now," Othello said.

"Kinda wouldn't apply to me anyway, now, but to be honest I stopped keeping up with current affairs after my side won," Zyan shrugged.

"No way are you Black Zyan Jarvis," Romeo said again.

"Can you prove you're a crystal singer?" Othello asked.

"How?" Zyan asked.

"Crystal singers, I'm told, heal very quickly," Othello stated.

Another light came on, increasing the illumination in the van.

"Actually he does look a bit like Zyan Jarvis," Romeo said, but was ignored again.

"Do you have a knife?" Zyan asked him, and rolled up his sleeve.

"I'm not cutting on your arm, man," Romeo said.

Juliet rolled her eyes, reached into her jacket, and stabbed Zyan in the arm with a slim knife. It felt...tingly. A bit wrong. Utterly without pain. Juliet, it seemed, favoured direct action too.

"Shara!" Romeo gasped.

Juliet turned to glare at him.

"Is it his first time?" Zyan asked Othello sympathetically.

"It might be his _last,_ " Juliet/Shara said.

"I won't be able to start the demo until you pull this out, by the way," Zyan pointed out, shaking his forearm meaningfully.

Juliet wasn't impressed by his unflappability, and neither was Othello. Romeo, on the other hand, was clearly aghast. Othello glanced at his wrist unit, and Juliet simply removed the knife from Zyan's arm, wiped it on Romeo's trouser leg, and then held it to his throat.

"Sha-, Juliet!" He protested.

Juliet took the stunner from him and handed it to Othello, who pointed it casually at Zyan.

"You better hope his wound heals quickly, because if it doesn't you'll _both_ be dead in the next thirty seconds," she told Romeo, who went even paler, and swallowed.

"Can I be a smartass again now?" Zyan asked her.

"Feel free," she said.

"I'll be honest – I haven't actually got around to timing this yet," Zyan said, looking at the wound, which was still dripping blood. "It _might_ take a bit longer than thirty seconds."

"So sorry. You can have thirty five," Juliet replied shortly.

"You're all heart," Zyan told her.

It actually took less than thirty seconds – the flow of blood slowed and then stopped, and the wound closed to a thin white line.

Othello didn't put the stunner away, although Romeo did get the knife removed from his throat.

"Don't open your mouth again," Juliet told him, as she replaced the knife in her jacket.

"Satisfied?" Zyan asked Othello.

Othello nodded. Zyan rolled his sleeve back.

"Say nothing else in front of him, though, please," Othello told him, indicating Romeo with a tilt of his head. "Recent events have made me think he may be a security risk."

"I won't tell the octos anything!" Romeo protested.

"You can be 100% loyal and still be a security risk, Romeo, if you're also 100% _stupid,_ " Juliet told him. "Shut up now."

"I won't though sir," Romeo carried on. "I won't let you down again."

"Sir, may I borrow that?" Juliet said, nodding at the stunner.

Othello handed it to her. Juliet took it, looked Zyan in the eye, and then discharged it into Romeo with a harsh buzz and a whiff of singed cloth. Romeo jerked and bucked in his seat, then slid to the floor of the van.

Juliet handed the stunner back to Othello, again without taking her eyes off Zyan.

"Now you can talk," she said, then produced the knife again, and started cleaning underneath her fingernails with the tip.

"Oh- _kay,_ " Zyan said, regarding Romeo's prone form and discarding the notion of making any jokes based around Shakespeare quotes. "I should probably start again. I'm Zyan Jarvis, I work for the Heptite Guild, and I have a business proposition for you."

"An unofficial one," Othello stated.

"Yeah. If you go to the Heptite Guild, they'll disavow me. Officially I'm on holiday somewhere else entirely – but the payoff, for you, is entirely real," Zyan said.

"How real is entirely real? In terms of zeroes after a number," Othello asked.

"Very real. Better than money," Zyan said.

"We're committed to a cause, Jarvis. We're not stupid."

"I didn't think you were. This is what we can offer you – direct from the Guildmaster." Zyan withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket. Othello read it, then pulled a small tab that was attached the the bottom of the sheet. It dissolved into powder and fell to the floor of the van.

"What do you want from us?" Othello asked.

"Assistance – armed assistance - in sorting out an issue we're having with some competitors. They'd rather the installation doesn't go ahead. We know they have a team on planet, or at least within quick deployment distance. Dangerous freelancers with a reputation. We also suspect they've paid the right people the right money in the right places," Zyan replied.

"Then pay them more. The Heptite Guild has deep pockets."

"It also has a Guildmaster with a conscience. He doesn't want the Guild to get involved with corrupt officials," Zyan said.

"But he's okay consorting with terrorists?" Othello raised an eyebrow.

"He gave _me_ a job," Zyan shrugged. "Plus we think you're the good guys."

Othello snorted. "Please."

"Fair enough. But if this works, and we can expose our adversaries as being involved in corruption, that gives the Guild an excuse to throw it's weight behind a renewal of motion CHAL275666," Zyan said. "And we will – with a considerable sense of satisfaction, to boot."

 _That_ got Othello's attention. The delightfully named motion CHAL275666 was a piece of legislation that had been stalled in the FSP Sessions for decades – it called for an FSP anti-corruption taskforce to be created to drain the swamp of Chalician politics.

"How do I know you're on the level?" Othello asked.

"Wanna stab me in the other arm?" Zyan asked.

Juliet paused her manicure and looked up. "I can do that."

"I believe _you_ , Jarvis – but you wouldn't be the first disposable, deniable agent despatched with a proposal they thought was genuine, but was, in fact, not," Othello stated.

"The Guild's Senior Counsel will be in-system soon – she's only one rung down from the Guildmaster. She can confirm what he's offered – but I'm on a tight schedule and I need to get started," Zyan said.

"If I said yes, what would you want?" Othello asked.

"Unpowered armour – the unobtrusive sort - and a military-spec stun pistol. Use of a half-decent aircar, and possibly an airbike at some point. A squad of men-" Zyan started.

"Ahem," Juliet interjected.

"Sorry. Djiel was kinda backward, and I've only been off it for like a year. A squad of _personnel_ ready to be deployed on short notice within the city," Zyan finished.

"And what are you planning to _do_ with all of that?" Othello asked.

"Break into the comms centre," Zyan told him. "Twice."

\- o O o -

Zyan gave Othello a few more details on his role in the plan. He took it all in and nodded, then murmured into his wrist unit. The airvan set down a few minutes later and the door slid open to reveal the exact same bar he'd just stepped out of.

"You'll have your answer in an hour or two," Othello said.

"Need to know where to find me?" Zyan asked.

"No – Juliet will be staying with you until our association is concluded, Jarvis. No offence, but I want you watched – and off the streets," Othello said. "Juliet, take him to room five, and stick with him like glue." He handed her the stunner, which she tucked away in her jacket. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Sir," she nodded, and jumped out of the van after Zyan.

"In the interests of full disclosure," Zyan said, "making sure I don't do stupid things is pretty much a full time job."

The door slid shut and the van hissed away.

"We'll wait in the bar," Juliet told him, ignoring his previous sally. "After you."

Zyan nodded and waked back into the Balalaika.

"Room five free?" Juliet asked the barman, who nodded, riffled through a box, and flung a key at Juliet. "Up the stairs at the rear – two flights, then turn left," she said to Zyan, handing him the key.

Zyan followed her instructions. The uppermost level of the bar appeared to have private chambers – he unlocked the door to reveal an unpreposessing room with a table and a few chairs. Juliet bolted it behind him and then took up a station leaning against a wall in the far corner, where she could see the door and the only window.

"This room is shielded," she said.

 _That's what you think_ , Zyan thought, as he settled into a chair, put his feet up on the table and slid his glasses back onto his face, as if settling in for a long wait.

"MARIN SAYS DO YOU REQUIRE EXTRACTION", was the message waiting for him – the glasses had rudimentary display capabilities.

"No," Zyan said.

"What?" Juliet asked.

"No chance of being monitored?" He asked.

"None," Juliet answered. "Are you planning on _sleeping_ there?"

"Well, you seem to have the whole exit-watching thing covered, and I reckon you've got stabbing me out of your system, so basically yes," Zyan replied.

\- o O o -

Othello returned just shy of two hours later, carrying a large kit bag and a smaller backpack.

"You're on," he said, setting the large bag on the table. "Here's what you asked for. Juliet will act as your liaison – we have a safe house you can use, not far from here, she knows where it is and how to access it. You okay with that?"

This last was directed at Juliet, who nodded. He handed her the backpack.

"A five-person team – codename Caliban - has been placed at your disposal. Juliet knows how to contact them. I'll expect a meeting with your superior as soon as she arrives," Othello said.

"Thanks," Zyan unzipped the bag – it contained everything he'd asked for.

"Your aircar is parked out front. There's also something you may not be aware of. My associates have been keeping an eye on some new arrivals in town – we suspected them of being foreign mercenaries hired to act against us, but given what you said, they may be here to act against _you_. They've been here since yesterday. You'll find what we know in there, on a chip," Othello added.

"Double thanks," Zyan said, removing said chip from the bag. If the CPF did have a line on the SCC mercs, it would be a serious stroke of good luck. "I'd appreciate it if you keep me updated as to any developments along those lines."

"We will," Othello said. "I'm taking a big risk with my people's lives. I hope you can deliver on what you promise, Jarvis."

Othello didn't need to make the threat explicit. Zyan knew who'd wield the knife, too.

"You'll find out the same time I do," was what he said, as he picked up the bag. Othello made no reply to that, simply leaving the room without further comment.

"Coming, Juliet?" Zyan asked his new liaison.

Juliet nodded.

"Good – you're driving."

He maintained the fiction that he couldn't communicate with the rest of the team from within the shielded room, but as soon as he was out of the door he dug the black crystal comunit out of his pocket. He could just have spoken, of course, but he didn't necessarily want Juliet to know that.

"I've made some new friends – very nice people," he said. "Also got a possible ID on the SCC team, intel attached. Look at it and let me know what you think." He inserted the chip – it was a standard model – into the port on the comunit. "I think we need to move the timetable for phase 2 forward, and I'm not getting any readier, so I'm thinking we go at the next window."

"Um, okay Zy. I'll be honest here man, I wouldn't know what to think about any 'attached intel', but Marin's having a read of it now. As for phase 2, we're ready for that, so, uh, whenever you want I suppose?" Tornaz replied.

"Good an answer as any," Zyan replied.

"Phase 2?" Juliet asked.

"I'll tell you in the car," Zyan said.

\- o O o -

Three hours later, the car was parked behind a pile of old, rotting crates down in the stygian darkness of what Juliet called the Underdepth. If they were a long way _down_ , though, they were not a long way _out_ : they were in the very centre of Babylon, only a few metres away from the base of the Tower of Babylon itself. The tower had only been built a few years ago, but already the Underdepth was colonising it, easing itself back around the new plascrete in the form of graffiti, the scorch marks of trash fires and the occasional lean-to built up against it. In theory the base of the Tower, like every other building with roots this far down, was patrolled by security. In practice, nobody came down here save drones: the Underdepth was wild and unpoliced. Even Juliet had insisted on bringing two members of team Caliban along to dissuade any locals from getting too close. They were a pair of hard-faced men in carefully nondescript clothes, currently engaged in projecting bad vibes from their stations on either side of the aircar toward anyone who might be nearby. If the bad vibes didn't do the trick, the stunners they carried would.

Zyan let them worry about the natives. He was currently worrying about what was going to be happening several hundred metres above his head.

"One minute," Pharisa informed him, through the glasses.

"Showtime," he told Juliet, and stepped out of the car. "If I'm not back inside of an hour, that means things've gone badly sideways and I'm probably not coming back at all."

"Hmm," Juliet said in reply.

"Seriously, don't try and come rescue me. Leave me to my fate, no matter what your noble instincts prompt you to do," Zyan continued.

"Hmm," she gave the same response to his sarcastic follow-up.

"Okay then," Zyan got out of the car and headed for a doorway set into the side of the tower wall: a small, armoured hatchway that should have provided ingress & egress for the tower's delinquent guards, but had instead been repurposed as a canvas for the Underdepth's street artists. None of them, it seemed, were ever going to trouble the Terran Academy's talent scouts. The tagging was such a multilevel patchwork of competing designs that it was more pattern than picture.

Security sensors tracked him as he approached the door, but that didn't bother him. Thanks to Alenda's assiduous negotiating, they had full access to all systems: the sensors would record only what Pharisa wanted them to, until she chose to log out.

The hatch clunked open for him as he drew near, and a rectangle of light cut through the layers of graffiti. Zyan stepped inside and closed the hatch behind him.

"The lift should be at the end of a short corridor," Tornaz, in his ear.

He was right. The doors were open, waiting for him. Zyan stepped inside and they hissed shut.

"Brace yourself. I'll be taking you up at four times normal acceleration. Travel time should be only a few seconds," Tornaz again.

The lift started upwards at a prodigious rate. Zyan groaned – it didn't hurt, but it was still an unpleasant sensation of extra gravity. He felt like his limbs were made of lead.

"I'm starting the program now," Pharisa said.

\- o O o -

Jaret liked his job in the tower's security nexus. Not only did he get the nifty job title of 'Crystal Security Chief', which sounded very impressive, he got to sit down all day, which was just fine by him, and he didn't have to do much of anything except stare at the monitors. He'd managed, after a few days, to get one of the screens retuned to the entertainment channels: this was strictly against protocol, but then again so was bribing the comms tower human resources department to get the job. It had been a hefty payout, and Jaret was damned if he was going to miss his favourite shows after parting with _that_ much for a job.

His first thought when his monitors started acting up was one of annoyance, because he was halfway through one of the aforementioned shows and didn't want to be interrupted by some stupid technical hitch. It was only after a few moments irritation when he realised the monitors were fine, they were simply displaying 'A RANDOM EMERGENCY DRILL HAS BEEN INITIATED. PARTICIPATION IS MANDATORY. FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH PROCEDURES WILL INVALIDATE YOUR EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT'.

"Oh," Jaret said, and started hunting around for the procedures manual that he had not, so far, troubled himself to read. The damned black crystal thing hadn't even got here, yet - even he knew that, the woman doing the installation was some famous actress from twenty years ago so it had been in the news. Jaret had not expected to be required to actually _do_ anything for several days yet.

'SIMULATING MAIN ENTRANCE ASSAULT. DIRECT ALL PERSONNEL TO DEFENSIVE POSITIONS AND SEAL OUTER DOORS', the monitors commanded.

"Um, okay, right," Jaret flipped desperately through the manual, but then gave up and thumbed the public address system instead.

"Erm, main entrance assault drill!" He said. "All personnel to defensive positions! Seal the outer doors!"

On his monitors he could see his staff complying hurriedly: presumably they'd all got the same memo about employment contracts that he had.

\- o O o -

The lift arrived at the top of the tower with a sudden feeling of weightlessness that almost made Zyan wince. The doors opened onto a corridor that looked like it curved all the way round the building (which it did, as Zyan knew from the building plans).

"Oof," he said. "I'm glad all lifts aren't like that."

"Don't be such a moaning Minnie," Pharisa told him. "Turn left then twenty metres, then the door on your right."

"Thanks for that," Zyan replied, moving off in the direction specified.

"Any time," Pharisa said. "Everyone is at the front of the building, and I've sealed the inner doors behind them. You've got seven minutes until the drill finishes, although judging by the state of this lot, I doubt any of them know that, so maybe you've got longer."

"Check," Zyan said, opening the door on his right. He was in a big server room, humming with aircon and computers. He could feel a frisson of lesser crystal from some of the units. "I'm at the first location. Tornaz, what do I do?"

"In row two, look for a big silver box marked as 'Primary Modulation/Demodulation Stack'," Tornaz said.

Zyan located the machine in a few moments. "Got it."

"Great. Remove two of the drives from the top row and replace them with the spares," Tornaz instructed.

That was simple enough. The drives were hot-swappable - all Zyan had to do was pull a pair of drives out and stow them in the bag he carried over his shoulder. The bag contained two blanks of the same specification, which he inserted in the resulting gaps.

"Done," he reported.

"Check," Pharisa said. "Go back the way you came and look for a door marked 'Primary Spares Store'."

Zyan darted out and back down the corridor until he arrived at the door so marked. Once inside, Tornaz directed him to pilfer various items, which he bagged alongside the drives.

"Done. Last stop: the main crystal chamber – use the door on the other side of chamber you're in," Pharisa said.

Zyan had been through all this, of course, and knew his itinerary, but it never hurt to have a redundant system in place. He exited the storeroom into the main chamber.

The large circular room's centrepiece was the mounting for the black crystal, a one-metre square open-sided frame. It was empty, of course, it's mounting brackets clutching nothing but air. The room was ringed with consoles and computers, each one connected to the central mount by ropes of cabling which sprouted upwards from the frame to curve overhead and then down again, like a fountain that gushed data rather than water. It was not unlike the crystal chamber he'd seen on Djiel, but deserted rather than thronged with techs.

"Go to the master console and log on: here's the details," Pharisa's voice was accompanied by a username and password appearing in his vision.

Zyan tapped the combination into the keyboard.

"I'm in," he said.

"You want the array configuration data," Tornaz advised him. Zyan located the subsystem he was referring to: one of the few aspects of the crystal comms setup that she could not access remotely.

"Found it," Zyan said.

"Slot in a pencil file and download the lot."

Zyan reached into a pocket and produced a pencil file, hunted about for a socket and then slid it in. The download started, with a progress bar: 2% done.

"Great, I love waiting," Zyan said. "Gives me a chance to work on my novel."

"You're ahead of schedule," Pharisa said. "Security are still milling around and arguing about who gets to man the big crowd control stunner. Looks like they're not going to be-"

"Juliet is contacting us on the alert channel," Marin interrupted suddenly. Juliet had a normal comunit, subject to normal constraints, but it was at least encrypted and perfectly capable of contacting Marcus in orbit. "Patching in."

"Hamlet, this is Juliet. Are you expecting any extra actors?" She asked. 'Hamlet' was the name Zyan had been assigned by Othello's CPF cell – Zyan had been surprised it wasn't taken yet.

"Negative, everyone who should be is already onstage," Zyan replied.

The Shakespearian thing could only take you so far. "There are three men attempting to gain access the same way you went in," Juliet reported.

"Any chance they're locals on the rob?" Zyan asked.

"Not likely," Juliet said. "They're wearing body armour, masked combat headgear and carrying stun rifles. They've managed to get the hatch open and they're now assembling some sort of equipment in there. They arrived in a real hurry."

"Also, no offence, but they're not your lot are they?" Zyan asked, with a slight wince to himself. For lots of reasons he did not want to offend Juliet.

"No – all other cells have been ordered to keep away from the Tower," Juliet answered.

"Acknowledged. Maintain distance for now and do not engage," Zyan said.

"Oh, we weren't planning to," Juliet pointed out. _She really is all heart,_ Zyan thought. He glanced at the console: 12%.

"Pharisa, have we got eyes on this?" Zyan asked.

"Sorry, what?" Pharisa asked.

"Security sensors. Can you get me video of these three guys?" Zyan clarified.

"Oh!" She went quiet for a moment. "No, the feeds have gone to static."

"Shards," Zyan muttered, pulling out the stun pistol Othello had provided and checking it's charge. "I'm guessing the other side have decided to piggyback on our manufactured security incident to carry out an incursion of their own."

"I'll raise the alarm," Pharisa said. "Security can deal with them."

"No!" Zyan and Marin said at the same time.

"But-"

"Pharisa, _I'm_ not supposed to be here either," Zyan reminded her.

"Oh, of course."

"Time to exfiltrate – I'm directing Juliet to the backup exit," Marin advised. The backup exit was the goods lift, which was on the opposite side of the tower. It didn't go as far down and was more likely to be observed, but it did have the advantage of not having three heavily armed bad guys at the bottom.

Zyan looked down. 18%.

"OK. Do that. Yeah. Are security wise to this yet?" Zyan asked.

"No, they're still in the outer sections and the administrator hasn't noticed that any feeds have been cut," Pharisa answered.

"Right. I need at least, shards, I don't know, two more minutes for this download to complete. Someone check the stores manifest for this place. Is there any welding equipment to be had? I'm guessing the SCC guys have got some sort of solution for getting up the lift shaft without control over the lift, but they've still got to get through the doors, and if they're welded shut it'll take them a bit longer," Zyan extemporised.

"'Workshop A'," Pharisa told him. "It opens onto the main chamber and the corridor, just like the last room did."

"Nice," Zyan left the pencil file for the moment and headed for the door marked, simply, 'A'.

"Zyan, any investigators will be sure to notice that _someone_ used welding equipment on those doors and that it wasn't the intruders – and the intruders will know it wasn't building security that did it," Marin pointed out.

"Any alternative ideas gratefully received," Zyan said.

"I got nothin'," Tornaz chimed in.

"Motion alarms have been tripped in the lift tube," Pharisa said. " _Something's_ coming up the shaft – maybe thirty seconds?"

"Send the lift down. That ought to give them pause. Trigger any anti-intrusion kit in the tube, if there is any," Zyan said, as he ripped open the door to the workshop. "And silence those alarms – if they get rumbled, so do I."

"Um, er, okay," Pharisa said, voice high with stress. "Doing it now." He could hear the staccato rattling of a keyboard in the background.

"You're doing great," Zyan told her, remembering that she wasn't used to this. Shards, _he_ wasn't used to this. "Don't rush, just work normally – that's almost always faster anyway."

"The lift is going down. I can't see any anti-intrusion mechanisms but this isn't my field and-"

"There," Tornaz said. "Shaft netting. Deploy it."

Zyan had grabbed a laser welder off a rack and was already nearing the lift doors. He could hear something thunking on the other side, a series of them, in fact, getting steadily quieter. The nets Tornaz had spotted, he hoped.

"Oh!" Pharisa exclaimed. "Shards!"

"I can't see what you can, Phar," Zyan reminded her, as he flicked on the laser welder and started sintering the doors shut.

"The lift got caught in the nets!" She clarified.

"Above or below their position?"

"Above – I think," Pharisa replied. "I can only guess based on which sensors were tripped."

"That's a good thing, then, it'll put a solid obstacle in their way. Well played guys," Zyan said. "Now if I can just-"

The doors rattled as something detonated on the other side. Zyan recoiled away from them.

"Explosion in the shaft!" Marin said.

"Yep, I noticed that almost at once," Zyan said dryly.

"I think they've got a clear run through now, sorry Zyan," Pharisa reported.

Zyan shut off the welder. If explosives were being bandied about, anything he could do wouldn't help much.

"I'm falling back to the main chamber. Let me know when they get in," Zyan said. He had the presence of mind to replace the welder on his way through the workshop. _At least_ , he thought, _when they blow the doors they'll wipe out any evidence that I was here first_.

The console was telling him 88%.

"Bloody computers," he muttered.

"Security have woken up," Pharisa said. "They're trying to unseal the outer doors so they can get back in."

"Don't let them!" Marin said.

Zyan's mind whirred. "No! Do let them – but keep the main chamber sealed. Send the guards around the circular corridor. That makes them the SCC's problem but not mine," he paused. "Maybe warn them to expect explosives though."

"How will you get to the-" Marin began, but then he was interrupted by an explosion that made the floor shake.

"Lost visual on the lift doors," Pharisa informed him.

"Can't think why that would be," Zyan said. "Are the guards released?"

"Yes," Pharisa said.

100%: Zyan yanked the pencil file out and made for the exit furthest away from the lift doors.

"Is my path to the goods lift clear?" Zyan asked, pausing with his hand on the door control.

At that moment a door opposite was opened and something small and dark was tossed into the room.

"Never mind!" Zyan said hurriedly as he ducked through the door and to one side. The grenade exploded behind him with a sharp bang and the door rattled. Zyan heard shouting and the buzz of stunners.

He looked left and right: his luck was holding, there was nobody in sight. He darted across to the goods lift and inside, slamming the manual door behind him.

"Get me out of here!" He said, nearly snapping. His answer was a feeling of weightlessness as the lift descended very quickly indeed.

"Thanks," he said. "Any idea what's going on behind me?"

"No verifiable data. Comms chatter suggests that the intruders have been driven back down the shaft," Marin replied.

"Okay. Is Juliet in position?" He asked, as the lift came to a stomach-churningly sudden stop.

"Yes, she is," Juliet said, as she hauled the doors open for him. The car was behind her, parked in the loading bay which Pharisa had opened up for them.

"Yes, she is," Pharisa said, repeating the woman's words.

"Great," Zyan answered them both, as they piled into the aircar. "Phar, make sure you erase any trace that we were in there."

One of the Caliban men was piloting, and before Zyan had even closed the door behind him he was lifting off. A few seconds later they were out in the TZ traffic, with no emergency services yet in sight.

"My program is already on it," Pharisa replied.

"Excellent," Zyan said. "We're clear, I'm going off the air until we get to the spaceport. Good job, everyone."

"Are you injured?" Juliet asked him.

"Juliet, I never knew you cared," Zyan replied.

"I don't want blood on the upholstery," she clarified.

"Well, you can take the valeting company off speed-comm, I'm fine," Zyan answered. _Well, probably_ , he thought. _Not like I'd actually know if I wasn't._

"What happened up there?" She asked. This was positive garrularity by her standards.

"Those three guys you saw blasted their way up the lift shaft and tossed a grenade into the main crystal chamber," Zyan said, then laughed and grinned.

"Why are you smiling? Your equipment just got blown up," Juliet asked him.

"Yes, it did. I'm smiling because I had a problem which, until just now, I did not have a satisfactory solution to. Those three jokers just handed me the perfect get out clause on a sharding plate – or rather tossed one in a door," Zyan answered.

\- o O o -

It took about an hour to get back into orbit – spaceport security were more than happy to accept a transfer of credit in place of customs documentation and did not search Zyan's bag. He had divested himself of body armour and weaponry on the way back, and left all that with Juliet.

"The CPF have claimed responsibility for the attack on the comms tower," Marin told him, when he got to the shuttle.

"They really haven't," Zyan answered.

"I am operating under the provisional assumption that it was a false flag operation," Marin nodded.

"I'll get Juliet to confirm it but this was almost certainly the SCC. That said, if these guys hadn't've done what they just did, I might've asked the CPF to anyway. This is _perfect,"_ Zyan told him.

"I do not follow," Marin replied.

"Let's have a meeting when we get back aboard the _CM1244_. I'll explain it."

\- o O o -

"It's going to be several days until Shecherzia and Aviczue get here," Zyan said a little later, to the assembled team. "The SCC were going to figure out, sooner rather than later, that the B&B ship in orbit had crystal singers on board – and then they were going to start keeping a very close eye on what we did, which was going to be 'not very much' for several days. That's suspicious. That starts them thinking along lines like 'what's really going on here' and 'are they trying to pull a fast one'. This is _so_ much better. Now we have an excuse to keep their attention focused where _we_ want it."

"And where's that, exactly?" Tornaz asked.

"On me," Zyan answered. "Trying desperately to repair the comms tower."

"Ooh, that is delightfully underhanded. I'm officially proud of how far you've come, Jarvis old son," Marcus laughed.

"Thanks, Marcus, I do my best. That said, all of this is pointless unless that stuff I nicked is okay. Tornaz, can you let me know soon as?" Zyan asked.

Tornaz had already withdrawn all of Zyan's ill-gotten comms tech from the bag and was inspecting it for damage.

"Seems okay – I'll run some diagnostics on it to be sure," Tornaz answered.

"Is it a good idea to go back to the surface again, Zyan? You nearly got killed just now," Pharisa asked, worried.

"Probably not – but this is too good an opportunity to waste. If you can capture the enemy's eyes you've as good as won," Zyan said.

"That is sound tactical thinking, but the danger remains," Marin said. "Also, you must consider that by breaking cover in this way, you necessitate a change in our strategy. You will no longer be a deniable asset."

"We've already done the grey-legal bit," Zyan said.

"You are still associated with what the regime considers a terrorist group. If that comes to light, you compromise the mission," Marin reminded him.

"Oh yeah. That." Zyan bit his lower lip.

"I'll go," Tornaz said. "I'm the qualified one anyway."

"Then I'm going with you," Pharisa said.

"Whoa, hang on guys. This is a big step up from tech support," Zyan said, surprised.

"I am more than happy to land," Marcus said. "However you should be aware that I cannot protect you when you are not aboard."

"I will accompany you, but I was a fleet officer, not a marine. Securing installations against enemy attack is not my speciality," Marin stated.

"And there are real bad guys down there who have already shown they're not averse to using more than stunners. They didn't check that room was clear before they chucked a grenade in there. This lot are totally okay with acts of deadly violence," Zyan told them.

Pharisa swallowed and nodded. "I don't remember it being particularly safe out in the ranges, and I didn't shy away from that," she said determinedly.

"Ditto. If it really will help then I want to get this thing fixed," Tornaz said in agreement.

"Okay, everyone repeat after me: this is stupid and dangerous," Zyan emphasised. "That's why _I'm_ doing it and not you."

"This isn't the military and you're not the boss," Pharisa said with finality. "We're doing it: end of."

Zyan mulled it over. "How soon can you be done with the other work we need to get done?" He asked Tornaz.

"With the sweet, top-drawer kit we've already brought with us from Ballybran? No more than a couple of hours," Tornaz answered.

"Okay, well, let's get that done first – carefully, we triple check _everything_. _Then_ we can decide if you two want to go paint targets on your back. With any luck Alenda'll turn up early and put a stop to this regrettable outbreak of gung-ho behaviour from people who should know better," Zyan said.

"You seemed enthusiastic enough when _you_ were going to be down there doing the repairs," Tornaz told him.

"Yeah, but _I_ don't know better," Zyan pointed out.


	16. Chapter 16

Alenda _did_ turn up early – in an FSP courier vessel, no less – but she didn't put a stop to Tornaz and Pharisa's volunteering. She made it official.

She must have been a formidable field agent in her FSP days – with the unique benefits the symbiote had conferred upon her she was even more so. Before Marcus' airlock had even cycled open she was in touch with Zyan to get a briefing.

 _Zyan? Are you on board?_ She sent.

 _I am_ , he thought in response, _and very glad you're going to be too._

 _Excellent,_ she replied. _Our highly passionate reunion will have to wait, I'm afraid, until I've had a chance to get on top of the current situation. There are some worrying reports in the local news feeds_.

 _Let me give you the executive summary of the past few hours,_ Zyan said, and then proceeded to think it. The sheer speed of information flow meant it was a bit more detailed than a verbal summary could have managed.

 _Understood – wait a moment while I come aboard,_ she sent back, as the airlock opened. "Permission to come aboard, Marcus?" She asked out loud.

"Granted with pleasure, my dear Guildmember," Marcus replied.

"Thanks awfully," she replied with a smile. "I promise to say hello properly in the next few minutes but right now it's critical that I speak with Zyan and then contact the Chalician government."

"Of course. Be so good as to show our guest to the comms suite, Zyan old chum," Marcus responded. Zyan was the only person on board – the other three singers had already gone down to the surface to announce themselves to the Chalicians and – if they were believed – assess the damage.

"And you can take my bag, while you're at it," Alenda smiled, indicating the large case at her side.

Zyan rolled his eyes but picked up the case – it was a proper old-fashioned suitcase with nothing in the way of gravitic assists. "Oof."

"Just leave it by the lock, I'll send a remote," Marcus said.

"Ta," Zyan replied, then turned to Alenda. "What've you got in there, gold bars?"

"Nothing so retro, Zyan," Alenda replied, then deployed the white stick he knew she didn't need – but there were, of course, appearances to keep up. "Brief me on the way, please."

For the look of the thing, they had a short whispered conversation, but the real exchange was on a different channel.

 _Is there anything else I should know?_ Alenda asked.

 _No, you know what I know now_ , Zyan answered.

 _Well, I'm very relieved you're uninjured_ , she gave his hand a quick squeeze _, and I agree 100% with your decisions and actions. I'm equally as unhappy as you are with Pharisa and Tornaz being on the surface but this is an opportunity we have to exploit to the full. If they're willing to do it then they're absolutely the best people for the job._

 _Can't argue with that, unfortunately,_ he replied. _Can you meet with Othello?_

 _I can meet with Bavis, and Othello will have to content himself with that. I'm going to be in the spotlight as soon as I make this call – being seen meeting with known undesirables will only tip our hand to the SCC and give them ammunition to use against us with the FSP. I'm afraid I can't be seen with you for the same reasons – you'll have to wait off-sensor, but please listen in._

They had reached Marcus' comms suite – Zyan retreated to lurk around the corner while Alenda broke the galactic record for having to deal with the fewest intermediaries before being put through to a planetary leader. Zyan could only assume that when the Heptite Guild's highest-ranking lawyer turns up unexpectedly just after your security failure results in a bombed out crystal comms centre, you don't keep her waiting.

"First Executive Anstris, I am Alenda Falkstrom, Senior Counsel and Chief of Legal for the Heptite Guild. Thank you for responding so quickly. I am given to understand that there has been a somewhat unfortunate occurrence at the communications centre?" Alenda said in a level tone.

Zyan couldn't see the screen upon which the image of First Executive Anstris was presumably dsiplayed, but he could hear his confusion and stress.

"Senior Counsel, we had no idea that you would be travelling here to oversee the installation. If you had sent word ahead-" Anstris started.

"Ironically, First Executive, that will only be possible once the installation has been _completed,_ " Alenda reminded him.

"What? Oh, of course. But then why-?"

"This is an important installation in an important system, First Executive – this was supposed to be a courtesy call by myself and a small delegation of singers, nothing more," Alenda told him. "It seems fortunate they were here before me – I am told they are already on the surface, assisting with repairs. While we are happy to provide help in this time of planetary emergency, First Executive, unless I receive assurances that their safety and security will be given the highest priority I will be recalling them this very instant," Alenda went on.

She kept Anstris off-balance for a bit longer, then turned on the charm. He apologised profusely and repeatedly, thanked her and the Guild, and said he was going to despatch an official shuttle to immediately take her to the surface.

"If I may make a quick suggestion at this point, Guildmember, it's probably easier all round if _I_ take you down there – in fact the only reason I've stayed in orbit so far is to facilitate an easy transfer for you from the courier vessel," Marcus interjected. "Actually, now I think of it, there's a landing pad just by the comms complex. Your team would be able to return aboard tonight."

"Who is that on the line?" The First Executive demanded. "Identify yourself! This is an official channel!"

"Marcus, First Executive. Brain of the _CM1244,_ " Marcus replied.

The First Executive, who clearly didn't understand, blustered in response. "There will be repercussions for this insolent interruption! Now get off this channel!"

"That would hardly be possible, First Executive – after all, I'm the one keeping it open," Marcus replied suavely.

"First Executive Anstris – if _I_ might make a quick suggestion at this point – I would ask you to moderate your tone, sir. You are addressing a Heptite Guild diplomat," Alenda's tone wasn't precisely frosty, but frost was definitely forecast very soon.

"A what? I thought you had come alone, Guildmember," Anstris replied.

"I did, First Executive. Marcus is the Brain of this B&B ship, as he has told you. The _CM1244_ has been accredited as a Heptite Guild embassy for the duration of this installation. Marcus is, therefore, a Heptite Guild diplomat and any insult to him is an insult to the Guild," Alenda explained – frostily.

There was a pause. "Ah, I see."

Alenda said nothing. Anstris eventually twigged to what she was waiting for, or perhaps an underling prompted him.

"My apologies, Guildmember. No insult was intended. I assumed someone had broken into the conversation without authorisation," Anstris gabbled.

Alenda said nothing for a moment, and then: "It is not _I_ who is due an apology, First Executive."

Again, some silence, until Anstris got it. "My apologies, Marcus."

"Not at all, First Executive. An understandable mistake during this fraught time. I'll begin my descent now, if you'll be good enough to expedite clearance to the New Babylon Administrative Centre and arrange for use of the main pad until after the installation," Marcus suggested.

"Of course, of course," Anstris agreed hurriedly.

"Then I shall see you on the surface, First Executive," Alenda said. "I will be going directly to the Comms Centre upon landing: my first priority is my people."

"Yes, yes, quite," Anstris agreed again.

"Thank you, First Executive. Until then," Alenda said, then a few moments later Marcus told him. "The channel is closed, Zyan, you can stop skulking now."

"Marcus, that really was very well handled," Alenda told the brain, as Zyan emerged from hiding. "I had expected to have to wrangle hard for landing rights that close to the installation site."

"Well, I _am_ a diplomat, after all," Marcus said, in a faux-preening tone.

"How long will landing take, Marcus?" Alenda asked.

"Only a few minutes, Guildmember," Marcus replied.

"Please, Alenda will do just fine," Alenda said to Marcus, then turned to Zyan with a smile. "Well, a few minutes is a few minutes longer than no time at all. Would you be so good as to show me to my cabin, Zyan?"

Zyan grinned. "Delighted to."

\- o O o -

A week later, Tornaz pronounced the comms centre repaired: just in time, as the liner carrying Shecherzia and the king crystal was expected that day. It was quite an achievement: there had been unexpected supply problems of every kind, bizarre protests from unions and a couple of attempted sabotage operations – almost as if someone was purposefully trying to make things difficult. Zyan rejoiced internally – if the SCC was busy with that, they wouldn't be looking elsewhere. These issues had kept Zyan and his borrowed team of operatives quite busy, and it wasn't even the most important part of the operation.

The _Solstice Princess_ entered the Chalice system on schedule, and was almost immediately surrounded by a cloud of Chalician customs vessels who insisted quite firmly that the liner was suspected of carrying terrorists of some unspecified kind. No shuttles would be permitted to depart until a thorough investigation had been carried out. Chalician Customs actually _doing_ something on this scale was such an unprecedented event it immediately hit the news channels despite an attempted blackout by the authorities.

Zyan made contact as soon as the liner was escorted into orbit: Aviczue had a black crystal comunit too.

"Hey Avcizue, how was your trip? Satisfyingly difficult for the diva, dare I hope?" He asked.

"To begin with, although I'll be frank: after a couple of days I sort of forgave her. She was genuinely frightened of Korzac. Any planet with a half-decent justice system would have locked him away years ago," Aviczue replied.

"Wait, what? You're _friends_ , now?" Zyan was amazed.

"Let's say that as a former police officer I have professional sympathy for any woman who was in a relationship like that. We had a few conversations, she's not so bad when she's not acting the part of Famous Actress Shecherzia Alar. Anyway, this is hardly relevant right now. How is your end of the operation going?" Aviczue asked.

"We're all good. The SCC mercs blew up the comms centre but we fixed it despite them trying to interfere," Zyan told her.

"But I thought we-" Aviczue began.

"Nope – we definitely need the comms centre to be working. On which subject, I suspect you're about to be interrogated or at the very least have your crystal confiscated. I don't know if this will have filtered down to passengers yet, but your ship's about to be boarded by Chalician customs agents," Zyan advised her.

"I guessed as much. They won't try anything in front of the cameras," Aviczue assured him.

"You mean onboard security?"

"No – I mean the camera crew following us everywhere. Fly on the wall celebrity documentary. You said you wanted a big diversion: I hope you meant it. As soon as we've got a workable black crystal link they want to start broadcasting everything she does _live_ , believe it or not," Aviczue explained.

"How did she manage that? Know what, never mind, if it works it works. Marin's on the line for you – tip me the wink when the SCC figures out you haven't got the real crystal. I've gotta go break into the comms centre again."

"Good luck – don't get shot," Aviczue advised.

"I'll make a special point of it," Zyan replied dryly. "That's me signing off then, see y-. Wait – did you say a _live_ broadcast?"

"Yes, what are you thinking?" Aviczue asked.

Zyan was grinning to himself. "I'm just gonna have a quick word with Alenda."

Zyan contacted Alenda and explained. Alenda agreed.

\- o O o -

The Chalician Customs Service was not, under normal circumstances, a particularly proactive organisation. Their idea of a well-planned and executed operation was extracting the heftiest possible bribe from a freighter captain whose paperwork was either slightly lacking or outright falsified.

It was hardly surprising, then, that they made a complete mess of intercepting and boarding the _Solstice Princess_. Three separate branches of the service had been directed to intercept and board the liner and had not troubled themselves to agree on an ops plan or even an overall commander, so three separate customs officials all hailed the liner separately demanding that she heave to for inspection.

Her captain declined (thrice) – the customs officials were welcome to inspect passengers and cargo after they had landed as per interstellar law, but it was quite impossible to heave to.

The customs officials insisted that he do so, stating that refusal would break Chalician law.

The captain declined once more, stating that while he did not wish to break Chalician law, the laws of physics were even more important, and by _impossible_ he meant impossible: the _Solstice Princess_ was hyperbolic, and nothing short of a rogue asteroid was going to stop her. This stopped two of the officials – the third, who was signifcantly more ignorant than his two colleagues, continued to insist that Chalician law should apply, at least until an underling managed to get his attention and explain a few things to him.

Meanwhile, the senior officers of the _Solstice Princess_ – a far more astute group – had already transmitted the appropriate protests and legal declarations to the Chalician authorities. This was _not_ their first rodeo. Shuttles would be heading for the surface as per schedule. If the Chalician Government objected, it was their right to stipulate they should land and debark passengers in a quarantined area. If this was the case they had seven minutes and thirty eight seconds to do so – after which point time would be up and the _Solstice Princess_ would be unable to recover her shuttles in time. The captain reminded all and sundry that insterstellar law laid down stiff penalties for misuse of these legal powers.

The Chalician authorities developed a bizarre case of sudden onset deafness. The shuttles landed as normal, albeit shepherded down by a swarm of customs craft.

The Chalician Customs Service and the Chalician Port Authority were not, it was fair to say, best friends. So, when the triumvirate of customs officials approached the CPA about locking down the New Babylon spaceport arrivals facility, they dug their heels in and dithered just as hard as they could. The end result of all this incompetence and inter-service rivalry was that Shecherzia and Aviczue - trailed by several confused port authority lackeys who were pushing the grav trolley with the Heptite Guild crate on it - made it almost all the way across the spaceport concourse to the exit before the Customs Service swarmed, mob-handed and toting stun rifles, in through the doors. The pair of crystal singers suddenly found themselves the centre of attention of the customs service agents, the port authority security who had followed them in to protest and several hundred gawpers - not to mention the film crew that were following them around everywhere: a man and two women, hung about with cameras and media drones.

Shecherzia took this all in with a sniff and a raised eyebrow. She was taking her brief to attract attention very seriously, so she had kitted herself out appropriately in a red dress more suited to an awards ceremony than a spaceport. Aviczue, in a discreetly armoured black bodysuit and wearing black crystal comunit shades, provided a sobering counterpoint to Shecherzia's vivid appearance.

The crystal singers were surrounded by a ring of grey uniforms, and a dozen stun rifles were trained on them. None of the customs agents seemed to know what to say, however: they simply stood there.

"Yes?" Shecherzia asked, in a tone that was perfectly polite and yet somehow made two of the agents wince.

"You are to be detained, Ms. Alar," one of them finally said.

" _Guildmember_ Alar," Aviczue corrected him coldly.

"On what charge, may I ask?" Shecherzia asked him. The man shrank as her attention - and the cameras - focused on him.

You could almost see the wheels spinning as he thought quickly. "There has been a security incident, Guildmember," the man replied. "For your own protection, I must insist that you come with us."

"What is your name?" Shecherzia asked him.

"Agent Martis, Guildmember."

"Well, Agent Martis. If this is all for _my_ protection then I am honoured - but if that is indeed the case I feel beholden to inform you that you're pointing your weapons in rather the wrong direction. I'm no expert but I'm almost positive the business end should point _away_ from the person you're trying to protect," Shecherzia informed him acidly - and it went downhill from there as she proceeded to throw a very eloquent and impressively cataclysmic strop of stellar proportions that went on for nearly half an hour and eventually turned into something of a viral sensation on the interstellar net. Aviczue was terrified that they were about to be shot, and there was little even the best bodyguard could do against several squads of armed men. Shecherzia, on the other hand, enjoyed herself immensely even as she wondered how, exactly, she was going to be able to complete the installation in the face of this bureaucratic onslaught. Aviczue had managed to keep her charge a reasonable distance from the crates of black, so she still believed she had the genuine king crystal.

Alenda arrived on the scene a few minutes later, with Marin in tow: she was looking forward to issuing a barrage of legal protests and he was looking forward to seeing Aviczue. After a few minutes spent gradually working their way through the concentric barriers of onlookers and guards, Marin hugged Aviczue and Alenda handed Martis a stack of data pads, each of which was locked and loaded with the legal equivalent of an AI-driven smart bomb equipped with a cluster of career-ending warheads.

Martis knew a lost cause when he saw one, but he also knew that if _he_ was the one to capitulate then he could kiss his job goodbye. He was an experienced bureaucratic operator, though: he dug his communicator out.

"A moment, Guildmember, while I contact my superiors."

It went three more jumps up the chain before it landed with the First Executive, who apologised profusely over the radio but insisted that for reasons of planetary security the Guildmember's cargo had to be impounded, but the Guildmember herself was free to go.

Aviczue, meanwhile, had received a transmission she'd been waiting for.

"I'll save you the trouble," she said. " _This_ crystal is from another set, it's useless here. We anticipated something like this, you see."

Several onlookers gasped and looked surprised. Although this was news to her, too, Shecherzia didn't even blink – instead she arranged a condescending smile.

"Then where is the real crystal?" Martis asked, slightly pale. This could have very serious repercussions for his future employment.

Aviczue shrugged. Shecherzia gave a tilt of her head.

Martis turned to Alenda. "Senior Counsel? I must insist you tell me where the crystal is. Planetary security is at stake."

"You are quite correct, Agent Martis. Planetary security _is_ at stake – Ballybran's planetary security, as a matter of fact. In any case I cannot help you: I haven't got the faintest idea."

\- o O o -

Alenda's words might have been spoken to Agent Martis, but their intended audience was a bit further away.

The impending black crystal installation had attracted a crowd. Such events usually did, and in this case the added frisson of drama – maybe even explosive drama – had proved an irresistable draw for many people. In an uncharacteristic fit of common sense, the Chalician authorities had decided that any crowds were best kept at a safe distance. Unfortunately for them, they'd assigned only a few personnel to attempt to achieve this, and New Babylon was a 3D city to boot: barriers could be flown over or under with ease. A cloud of rubberneckers in aircars surrounded the tower, and a lesser cloud loitered near the exotic bulk of the _CM1244_ like wasps around a nest, currently sitting on the main pad of the primary governmental building a hundred metres or so away. The security services occasionally hassled an individual car to make it leave the area, but nobody was really paying any attention.

One of these cars was driven by Juliet. Her passenger was an armed and armoured Zyan. They were currently keeping an eye on another car that the CPF had been tailing for a while, which, if they were correct, contained the people Alenda had _really_ been speaking to – the SCC mercs. It certainly looked the part – it was the aircar equivalent of a demilitarised all terrain vehicle: all blacked out windows, armour and hard edges.

"It will be difficult for you to get into the Tower without being noticed, even with this crowd," Juliet warned. "Are you sure you don't want to take the lift up from the ground again?"

"We talked about this, Juliet," Zyan reminded her, checking the charge on his stun pistol. "I'm not using the tradesman's entrance this time."

Juliet's sharp features were usually set in a frown, which now deepened to something approaching a scowl. "I'm not keen on you exposing yourself like this. The people in that car aren't going to be armed with stunners."

Zyan looked up with amazement. "Was that _concern?"_

Juliet considered that for a moment, then expelled a breath in a sound of resignation. "You seem to not be a _complete_ cretin. I'd be slightly annoyed if you got killed on my watch."

Zyan smiled. "Well I wouldn't want to annoy you by getting shot to bits," Zyan replied, pushing his high tech shades into position up his nose.

Juliet harrumphed. Zyan went through the motions of getting his comunit out. "Is the door unlocked, Pharisa?"

"Yes," Pharisa – once again dialled into the comm centre's security – replied. "I've engaged the environmental alarms in the crystal chamber and the main corridor – everyone has pulled out of there."

"Looks like they _were_ listening to me after all," Tornaz remarked – it was his instructions the tower staff were following: if the alarms sound, drop what you're doing and make your way quickly but safely to the main lobby.

"And my ride?" Zyan asked.

"Where it's supposed to be, Zyan," Tornaz replied. "Try not to trash it, I was getting to kinda like it."

"Cool. Remember – no real names or other identifiable information from now on. If you need to identify someone, use their assigned alias."

"Got it. My sidekick here has even gone so far as to stick a big bit of printout on the bulkhead with 'no names' written down followed by an excessive number of exclamation marks," Pharisa replied.

"Sidekick!" Tornaz objected.

"Have your domestic later, please kids," Zyan said, then turned to Juliet. "This is where you get off."

Juliet looked to be on the verge of protesting this, but then muttered into her own comunit. Othello's shabby airvan pulled up alongside the aircar, with it's side door slid open. The van was full, but it was too bright outside to make out any details in the gloom within.

Juliet looked once more at Zyan. "Don't get dead," she advised.

"I wouldn't dare," he said. "You'd kill me."

"And don't you forget it," Juliet told him, then slid back the aircar door and stepped calmly across into the airvan, as if nipping between moving vehicles several hundred metres above ground level was something she did every day. The airvan sped off – Zyan sealed the aircar door and shoved the comunit back into a pocket.

"Showtime," he said.

"Understood," Tornaz's voice replied.

"Right – let's get started then," Zyan said, and shoved the aircar to full power: puny compared to the output an airsled was capable of, but sufficient for the purposes at hand. With a smirk, he put an intentional kink into his course to pass perilously close to the putative SCC aircar, forcing it to swerve out of his way or risk a collision. He then made a beeline straight for the Tower, ignoring hails from the overworked police telling him to back off.

After a few seconds the comms tower security chimed in with their own protests, but their insistence that he change course didn't prevent the goods entrance doors from opening to admit him.

"This is CS Jarvis," Zyan said into the aircar's comunit, on an open channel. "I'm here to carry out the installation – with the _real_ crystal. Please make the appropriate preparations."

This elicited nothing but more orders to change course from the tower staff – backed up by warnings that there was an environmental emergency and the crystal chamber was locked down. Zyan was surprised they'd noticed – they hadn't been particularly on the ball the last time he'd dropped in. Much like Alenda a few minutes ago, though, he wasn't really speaking to them. The SCC were monitoring all frequencies: on cue, the quasi-military aircar changed course to pursue him.

"Welcome to the party, guys," he muttered under his breath.

Tower security were ordering him away, but unbeknownst to them that was _all_ they could do to keep him out – the goods entrance was opening up for him. Zyan aimed the aircar straight for it and spun the vehicle round at the very last moment in the mid-air equivalent of a U-turn.

He mistimed it slightly – the aircar's collision alarms went off as the rear end knocked a stack of crates flying and then, for an encore, scraped along the rear wall with a unearthly off-key shriek of tortured plastic and metal that made Zyan wince. Juliet wasn't going to thank him for that. "Oops," he said to himself – then he grabbed a backpack from the passenger side footwell and was out.

Pharisa was on top of her game – the goods lift was open and waiting. Zyan dived into it – Pharisa closed the doors behind him and sent him up.

"Is the way clear?" Zyan asked. "For sure – I'd rather abort than do this with bystanders."

"It's clear," Pharisa replied.

"Result," Zyan said.

The lift went up at high speed again – Zyan felt heavy, but the goods lift wasn't capable of the acceleration he'd felt the last time he'd broken in. Nevertheless it arrived on the main corridor after only a few seconds. Zyan wrenched the doors open and bolted for the entrance to the main chamber, his way lit by strobing orange emergency lights and his coming heralded by the trumpeting of the alarms.

"Can we kill the noise? I can't hear myself think in here," Zyan asked.

The alarms cut out immediately, although the lights kept flashing. "The SCC vehicle has reached the goods bay. They're currently stabbing at the lift button and, oh, they shot up your car, and now they've shot the security sensors out," Pharisa reported.

"Juliet's gonna go _mental_. Did anyone get a head count and a make on what they're packing?" Zyan asked.

"In english, please," Tornaz.

"How many bad guys and what weapons are they carrying," Zyan clarified.

"Five hostiles exited the vehicle, equipped with body armour, directed energy assault rifles with underbarrel grenade launchers and unidentified sidearms in thigh holsters," Marin replied, then clarified. "Viola, Desdemona, Ophelia and I are in a secure aircar on our way to Prospero: we are monitoring." This told Zyan that Alenda, Aviczue, Shecherzia and Marin were already on their way to Marcus.

"Understood. Thanks," Zyan replied. Directed energy assault rifles – pulsers – were grey-legal at best outside of the FSP military, and even _they_ didn't like to issue them to their troops unless they were facing attack by amphetamine-crazed mutant cyborg bears. Add in the grenade launchers and they could be a real day-ruiner.

"Lift has arrived in the goods bay. They're taking out sensors as they go," Pharisa updated him. She didn't ask if she should override it.

Zyan knew that at normal speeds it took the goods lift forty-seven seconds to make the ascension to the main corridor. He also knew – at first hand now, as he'd just done it at a sprint – that it took eighteen seconds to get from the goods lift shaft to the entrance to the main chamber. So, as he ducked through the doorway into the deserted main chamber, he knew that in just over a minute he'd be looking at the business end of five extremely hardcore rifles wielded by five extremely hardcore mercs – and he had a stun pistol, a popgun by comparison. The door closed behind him – it was, he knew, made of tough plastic: but nobody was going to take any bets that it'd stand up to pulser fire, let alone the grenade launchers.

Zyan unzipped the top of the bag and started removing crystal installation kit – a hand sensor plus a couple of devices that Tornaz had told him the names of and which he had promptly forgotten. These were normally used by the technicians present at a crystal installation – the actual crystal singer only had one job to do out of many, although Zyan knew how draining it was – but he was on his own right now.

He arranged them on the floor by the empty crystal brackets. Inside, he was wound tight as a spring. The mercs were coming through that door any moment now – Zyan made sure the bulk of the crystal equipment was between him and the door he'd entered through.

"They're splitting up," Pharisa informed him.

Zyan exhaled in irritation – this made things slightly trickier, he'd been hoping they'd be unprofessional enough to stay in a single group. "Of course they are. Which doors are they going to?"

"Three to the one you used, two to the one opposite, or at least that's what it looked like before they killed the sensors." Pharisa replied.

There were four doors – Zyan wasn't worried about having an exit route. He had more esoteric problems.

"Security are nowhere, should we abort?" Pharisa's voice was high and worried.

"No – stick to the plan. We knew this was how it was going to go down," Zyan nearly snapped.

"They've got _guns!_ Real ones!" Tornaz added.

"Which is why I need you focused and _sticking to the plan._ Remember – if they splatter me all over the walls of the comms tower they can't argue that we fluffed the installation. They need this done quietly and deniably, _"_ Zyan replied, taking the last two items out of the bag – a padded bundle emblazoned with Heptite Guild seals and a grenade.

"Um..." Pharisa said. Clearly the concept of splattering was not something she was prepared to deal with, which was fair enough – Zyan wasn't over-enamoured of it himself.

"I know how they're going to try and handle this situation, don't worry," he said, about all the reassurance he could offer. He held the bundle in plain sight and pulled out the grenade's pin with his teeth - anyone looking at him couldn't help but realise he was a) carrying crystal and b) borderline insane, mucking about with grenades like that. "Any update on the bad guys?" He asked, spitting out the pin.

"We're blind here, sorry Hamlet," Pharisa answered.

 _They're going to try and shoot the locks out_ , Zyan guessed. He was right on the money – from either side of him came the sudden staccato hiss of pulse rifles on full auto. The door locks simply evaporated, and the two panels were forced open. The mercs followed their pulsers into the room, crouching but with weapons at high port. The lead pair covered him, the others swept the room, taking out any security sensors they saw with precise and controlled single shots – these guys were pros. Like Zyan, they were encased in high-tech black armour. Unlike Zyan, they were fully masked.

"Hey there, Jarvis," a voice came from the merc who was leading the group of three – modulated into metallic harshness by the mask. "We have specific orders to kill you only if necessary – so _please_ make it necessary."

"Hey there, faceless killers," Zyan replied. "I don't have any specific orders but I really wanna know what this grenade does, so please make _that_ necessary."

Zyan held his hands above his head. Five masks followed the movement, taking in the crystal and the grenade.

"Well, somebody didn't come to play, did they?" The lead mask remarked, unruffled. "There's no need for dramatics, though, Jarvis. I'm authorised to offer you a million credits, cash, if you let us walk out of here with that crystal," the man snorted in humourless laughter. "Make the wise move."

Zyan froze – not out of fear, although he certainly found himself very much in the grip of that right now – but because despite the odd harmonics of the mask there was something familiar about the voice and the choice of words.

"Konovalov?" Zyan asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well, that's not what it says on my wrist unit these days," Konovalov replied.

"You've come up in the world," Zyan congratulated him with false cheerfulness. "Mind you, you didn't exactly have any other direction to go. Aren't you supposed to be in jail?"

"Do you want the million, Jarvis?" Konovalov wasn't biting.

"I've _got_ a million. Well, a share in one, anyway," Zyan replied.

"I'm also authorised to let you know that a million can be considered an opening offer," Konovalov countered.

"I'm surprised ex-Governor McKenzie has got that sort of money to be offering about, all things considered," Zyan said.

Konovalov made a sound that was half-scoff and half-laugh. "Come on, Jarvis, you can do better than that."

"Yeah yeah," Zyan said. "Sounds like you guys _really_ want this installation stopped. Interesting. Anyway, I'd love to catch up on old times, Konovalov, but instead why don't we do _this._ "

Zyan released the grenade and backflipped.

"Grenade!" The masks shouted, somewhat unnecessarily. There was a single burst of gunfire, but Zyan didn't feel any impact - the mercs were more interested in finding cover than aiming.

The grenade wasn't a fragmentation or flash-bang variety, but a customised concoction of Othello's own design. It detonated in a burst of electromagnetic interference, smoke, a series of loud popping noises and a cloud of silvery chaff - between them these measures made for a very effective distraction as Zyan landed, rolled, and scrambled up towards one of the other doors. It was also going to make a hell of a mess for someone to clean up, but Zyan was happy to leave that to the Chalicians to sort out.

He clutched the sealed bundle under his arm like a footballer as he ran - Pharisa made sure the door was open for him.

"After him!" Konovalov was shouting. "We need that crystal! Beta team, I want eyes on the outside of the tower _now_!"

Zyan was through the door and turning, heading for one of the emergency exits on the side of the tower where Tornaz had fallen into the habit of parking the airbike he'd insisted on riding to and from the _CM1244_ every day. The security guards had thought him somewhat eccentric for doing so, but it had been a premeditated move: it meant Zyan would have easy access to an escape vehicle and nobody was going to remove it.

"Another aircar has broken loose from the pack of gawpers and is orbiting the tower," Tornaz said. "This one's yellow, looks more like a standard aircar than a hovertank."

"Got it," Zyan replied.

Zyan had been tinkering with the bike - it might look like a one-man skimmer but (at the cost of the drive burning out after only a few hours use) it was considerably faster than it's spec sheet advertised. It was a long, low machine made entirely of curves and attitude - the only room for cargo was a tiny hatch between the seat and the handlebars, which Tornaz had helpfully left unlocked and open. Zyan slammed his bundle into it, slid into the seat and went to full power straight out into the sky.

"Viola, are you online right now?" Zyan asked, as he turned hard - away from the government building and the _CM1244_ and away from the city centre.

"What? Zyan, are you okay?" Pharisa.

"Yeah, what happened there, did you know that guy?" Tornaz asked, talking over her.

"Noise off! Observe radio protocol!" Marin snapped, uncharacteristically forcefully. "Yes, she is."

"I'm here. Report," Alenda's voice came over the black crystal com.

"That was a guy called Konovalov. If it doesn't ring a bell, it should - he was an enforcer for Jamila McKenzie back on Djiel and the guy who worked you-know-who over with the butt of a stunner in the back of a hover before we escaped. However I'm starting to wonder just how authentic a beating that actually was and just how authentic a henchman Konovalov was," Zyan said, as he piled on the power – the yellow aircar had appeared in his rear sensor, and it was really hitting the gas, too.

"You think he recruited our mole?" Alenda replied.

"Isn't that a little paranoid?" Shecherzia chipped in. "I _know_ Vander - he's a cowardly conniving cretin, I'll give you that, but he has all the spine of an Optherian slimefish."

"Please, _Ophelia_ , no names," Marin told her.

"Yes, sorry, very well, but anyone with half a brain and access to news archives can figure that out from what _Hamlet_ just said, and isn't this a private channel?" Shecherzia said dismissively.

Zyan couldn't help but grin at that. "Granted, but get in the habit, okay?" He fired back. "Paranoia was an essential survival skill back in the day on Djiel. I don't buy that Konovalov _just happens_ to turn up here fronting the SCC op. McKenzie called him 'a very experienced operator' on Djiel - clearly she was right about that, at least, because he played her like a harp. Whether he recruited Vander - might aswell call him that, now, Ophelia's not wrong about the background to this being on public record - or vice-versa I can't say. They weren't in that hover together for that long, so my guess is any recruitment had already been done and Konovalov was there to keep Vander _alive_ , not to kill him. I'd bet my next haul of crystal that he isn't even Djielese and I'll have to continue this later because some fardling idiot is shooting at me."

Zyan had dived down into the claustrophobic innards of New Babylon, following a course pre-programmed into the airbike's nav computer. The original black aircar had caught up, and the yellow one was indeed firing at him. The police were notably absent, either through artifice or incompetence – or perhaps they were occupied keeping over-enthusiastic spectators from trying to follow, although fortunately none of them had the speed to do so.

Zyan jinked and wove around his base course - the tiny airbike already presented a very small target and hanging out the window of a speeding aircar wasn't the best firing position, but every little helps. Zyan whipped the airbike around a pillar, easily out-turning the pursuing aircar, and the shooting stopped.

"So to continue: motive, which we haven't actually addressed yet. _Why_ is Vander working with the SCC?" Zyan posed the question.

"Money is an obvious inducement," Alenda said. "They just offered you a million to flip."

"True. Ophelia, what do you know about him?"

"Hamlet, dear, although I do love a nice juicy plot to go with the action, is this absolutely the best time to be having this discussion? You seem somewhat busy being shot at," Shecherzia asked.

"Well, you're not wrong, but humour me. Might not get the chance to pick it up again later, Ophelia, if these guys up their accuracy a bit." Zyan said, even as he hauled on the controls to avoid a large airtruck which barreled across his (admittedly slightly unpredictable) flightpath.

"Very well, although he's not exactly what I'd term a close confidant. He likes his luxuries, he _doesn't_ like hard work, and dear _God_ he can bore for Ballybran when he gets on to the subject of crystal singer status and privilege. To hear him talk you'd think we deserve to be treated like nobility. I'll admit I love to be pampered as much as the next legendarily beautiful screen goddess but when all's said and done I prefer for the pampering to be done by well paid equals rather than fawning slaves - it feels so much more rewarding that way. Servants are for amateurs, _real_ adoration costs money and frankly I'm more than worth it., Shecherzia declared.

"Shards, you are something _else,_ " Zyan replied.

"I know, although it's always nice to have confirmation," Shecherzia replied lightly.

"She may have hit upon a motive, though. Vander _is_ very much one of the old guard. He liked the Guild the way it was. This could motivate him to find common cause with others who liked the Guild the way it was, too – outsiders," Alenda said.

"You're, um, coming up on point zulu, Hamlet," Tornaz interjected.

"So noted," Zyan replied.

The SCC aircars chose that moment to open up at him again – Zyan saw energy fire of some kind pass within a few inches of his port viewscreen, which was very obliging of them as it would make the next stage of the plan all the more convincing.

Zyan hit a control, there was a sharp crack and the airbike shuddered as the port drive unit started spewing smoke: or seemed to. Zyan pushed the control bar forward and went into a steep nosedive. Thinking they'd hit something critical, the aircars ceased fire and swooped downwards after him.

It was, Zyan reflected later, really not a bad bit of piloting at all. He made it look as if his craft was barely under control – barely avoiding buildings and lurching out of the way of other traffic at the last minute, all the while trailing smoke. Downwards and downwards he plummeted, through the Twilight Zone and into the abyss of the Underdepth. With a crushing sense of G-force, he pulled up at the last minute and decked the airbike. It skidded across the ground, knocking over piles of rubbish, and finally came to a rest with it's nose half-buried in a heap of detritus. Zyan practically threw the plasglas canopy back, grabbed the bundle from the cargo space and leapt out. The two aircars were already coming in for a hasty landing.

There was a shabby plascrete building to the right of Zyan's crash site, with a trash fire out front. Zyan dived through the front door. Inside was a mess of haphazardly stacked crates and more piles of rubbish, dimly lit by jury-rigged bioluminescent strips strung along a rusted gantry that ran around the room, itself groaning under the weight of what looked like decades of assorted junk – there were no windows and no other exit.

"End of the line," Zyan said, and stopped by the far wall under the gantry.

Konovalov and his men didn't waste any time – they were out of their aircars before they'd even stopped.

"Go, go, go!" He ordered. "We need that crystal, do _not_ let him get away!"

Two mercs stayed with the aircars – ten of them went inside, Konovalov leading the way.

Zyan just stood there, holding the bundle.

"Sir!" One of the mercs said, as they all swept inside. "There's-"

Konovalov looked around in surprise as two full squads of the Chalician People's Front – twenty people - emerged from concealment behind crates and from under trash piles on the floor and the gantry – they all wore armour, and those that had been concealed as random garbage also wore cloaks camouflaged with odds and ends of junk. A very effective disguise, in the Underdepth. They also all toted very hefty weapons.

Zyan smiled at the merc. "Konovalov, meet Caliban. I imagine that right now your guys outside are reporting the aircars are surrounded, too. For your information, you're outnumbered and these people really don't mess about."

"We're armed with grenade launchers, Jarvis. This could get messy," Konovalov said.

Zyan laughed. "I doubt they're paying you enough for suicide, Konovalov."

Konovalov made no reply.

" _However_ , I'd prefer if nobody got killed today, so..." Zyan's smile broadened into a grin. "Make the wise move: have a conversation with me, and if we come to a mutually beneficial arrangement then everybody walks out of here happy."

"Go on," Konovalov said.

"Everyone's weapons on the floor, first, please," Zyan said. "That part's non-negotiable."

"Do as he says," Konovalov told his men – but then again he had little choice with twenty barrels pointed at them. They laid their weapons down, rifles and pistols.

"Smart. Okay, everyone outside 'cept me and Konovalov, please. We're going to have a little chat."

It took a few minutes for the CPF to herd the mercs outside, leaving Konovalov alone with Zyan.

Zyan took off his shades and tucked them into a pocket on the front of his armour.

"The mask, Konovalov," Zyan said. "This just seems so impersonal."

Konovalov reached up and removed his mask. It was indeed him – his face still as bleak as it had been on Djiel.

"Here, present for you," Zyan tossed the bundle to Konovalov, who caught it. "Open it up if you want – it's a fake. Looks like black crystal – but it isn't: we use it for practicing installations. You'll want to get that confirmed, of course, so feel free to hang onto it."

Konovalov looked at the bundle and snorted. "Clever, Jarvis. I have to hand it to you, the Guild played this well."

Zyan laughed. "They _think_ they did."

Konovalov looked up.

"If this had gone down the way the Guild planned it, someone – maybe Shecherzia Alar, maybe not – would be installing the final crystal right now in the comms centre. However, they're going to get a nasty surprise: _their_ black crystal is a fake, too. I swapped it out. See, about a week back when you broke into the comms centre and blamed it on the CPF, you very nearly interrupted a _real_ CPF op – I was in there, stealing the equipment I need to perform an installation at a secondary site, one I've kept secret. Lucky for me you blasted the installation chamber, actually – no chance of anyone noticing what'd been stolen," Zyan explained. "Only I know where the real crystal is stashed."

"If you wanted to deal, Jarvis, you could have just got in touch. It's starting to look like you had the drop on me from the get-go," Konovalov said.

Zyan shrugged. "I prefer to bargain from a position of strength. You and your employers need to know I'm serious."

"I'm getting that," Konovalov allowed. "Why betray your own people?"

"In what way are they _my_ people? I've been there about a month," Zyan shrugged.

"It's not like you can leave, Jarvis. I was briefed thoroughly on singer physiology. You'll die if you don't return to Ballybran."

"Oh, I intend to return all right. I don't particularly like the way Dahl runs things, however – he's already tried to seize my claim from me. And as for most of the other singers?" Zyan made an indelicate noise. "You've met Vander, you know what a bunch of supercilious fardlings they are. Reminded me of the prots a bit too much. I'll level with you: I've made a few friends and I plan to do right by them, but that notwithstanding there's not much there to trigger any pangs of guilt, is what I'm saying." Zyan made a dismissive gesture. "Here's the new deal, and it's take it or leave it – the CPF get a massive wadge of cash, I'm thinking that million creds you were bandying about will keep Othello happy. You get the real crystal, or if you want I can smash it up as part of a badly botched install, the Guild prove themselves incompetent by assigning the job to a junior member with a dodgy past, etcetera etcetera. However you want to play it is fine – I'll leave that side of things in your capable hands. Bottom line, you get a failed Chalice installation that gives you the final push you need to gain control of the Heptite Guild, just like you wanted – oh, and your people will be released unharmed, naturally."

"And you?" Konovalov asked. "What do _you_ want?"

"Well, if I suddenly walk away from this situation much richer then it's going to look very bad, and as it happens I'm alright for money right now anyway. Instead I was thinking that – when the dust has settled – I get Dahl's job. The Guild needs an urgent overhaul – the workforce needs a union badly, for starters, to look out for their interests, keep singer excesses in check, that sort of thing. I'd expect that to take a very, very long time. Output will be affected, without a doubt." Zyan dangled the prospect of Guild chaos in front of Konovalov like a lure.

"You can save the spiel, Jarvis, I wasn't hired for this job for my business skills," Konovalov told him flatly.

"Yeah, no, don't worry. I figured this was all above _your_ pay grade, Konovalov." Zyan smiled at him insincerely. "No, you run along now and go find someone with authority – I'm sure there's someone in-system holding your leash. They'll need to convince me – today – that they've got the clout to give me what I want. Otherwise I'll go and install the crystal in the backup location – a very safe, secret location - and claim to the Guild that I just tweaked the plan because I didn't trust Alar, which is plausible because I _don't:_ I'm sure Vander's been passing on Guild gossip, so you'll know all about that."

Konovalov glared at Zyan, but he was out of cards to play and he knew it. "Very well. I'll convey your proposal to my employers."

"Awesome. Room five in the Balalaika Bar, section B56 – it's very secure and very private. Maximum three people, unarmed. They will not be harmed – you have my word. One hour, and no tricks." Zyan grinned, then walked past him and out of the door.

He paused on the threshold, though, and stuck his head back in.

"Oh, they can get the drinks in while they're at it – mine's a Yarran beer," he said, and then was gone.

\- o O o -

Zyan couldn't have hoped for a better result. Precisely one hour later – out of his armour and bereft of weaponry, but the time for that had passed - he was seated in the tired-looking conference room in the Balalaika bar, the shades beside him on the table. There was a polite knock, and Juliet ushered in a trio of suits: two men and a woman. No introductions were made, although they had, surprisingly, actually bought him a Yarran beer. Zyan took it with a polite thank you, but didn't drink it. You could never be too careful, and he had one on the go anyway.

"You will understand, I'm sure, that we need to verify the security of this room before we can proceed," the woman explained.

"Please," Zyan made a gesture of invitation.

"If you'd be so kind as to ask your associate to return my scanner?" The woman prompted.

"Now I hope you didn't intimidate these people too much when you searched them, Juliet," Zyan said in a faux-chiding tone.

Juliet ignored this, and handed the woman a small hand scanner, then held up a set of keys. "You owe me an aircar. The one you turned up in looked nice. I'm keeping it."

The woman smiled frostily. "A token of good faith, let us say."

"No, it isn't, I'm straight up stealing it from you," Juliet corrected her. The woman blinked in surprise.

"Yeah, okay, she knows that Juliet," Zyan interceded.

Juliet glared at everyone in the room, including Zyan, and then left, closing the door behind her.

"What can I say – she doesn't really like other people very much," Zyan shrugged.

The woman activated the scanner and waved it about. "The room is secure," she pronounced.

"Okay then," Zyan said. "Persuade me you can give me what I want."

It was a very good presentation, very professionally done. The woman appeared to be the chief negotiator, and did most of the explaining. Each of the trio represented one of three telecom companies – the woman herself was a representative of the Hardesty Communications Corporation, the two men were from two lesser organisations. Each of them affirmed that they were in a position to guarantee Zyan what he wanted, and were happy to do so. Contracts could be signed as soon as he wanted.

"Of course, this conversation never took place," the woman said, finishing up, with another of her frosty smiles.

Zyan sighed. "It kinda did," he said, picking up the shades and sliding them on. "I wasn't lying about the secondary site, it's the _CM1244_. Marcus has the spare power to run a passable black crystal rig – enough to open one channel, and it's been open since..." Zyan made a show of glancing at his wrist unit. "Huh, look at that – pretty much since I got to Chalice Prime. Installing black crystals is really, _really_ hard work, let me tell you. Then Shecherzia turned up with a camera crew in tow and, well, it was just too tempting. Long story short, we've been broadcasting _everything_ on the live vid circuit, _galaxy-wide_. Black crystal communication: the original and best, accept no substitutes, please contact the Heptite Guild on Ballybran for prices and availability," Zyan said offhandedly.

"You little b-" The woman started to say.

"Oh, don't swear!" Zyan interrupted her. "The President of the FSP is watching, apparently. Good morning Mr. President. Or is it Madame President right now? Sorry, Mr or Mrs President, politics isn't my thing – hope you enjoyed the show anyway," Zyan said, finished his beer, and stood up. "Anyway, I'm going to the bar. You guys want anything?"

\- o O o -

Zyan never got to the bar – the police were waiting for him downstairs, and Juliet had evaporated. He was arrested, held for two hours but not charged, then taken by uncommunicative, tense Chalician police to the _CM1244_ (in Marcus' capacity as Heptite Guild embassy) and told not to leave again until he was out of Chalician space. They didn't have to wait long – Shecherzia removed the crystal from it's jury-rigged cradle in Marcus's cargo hold and installed it in the comms tower. As soon as she stepped - pale-faced and exhausted - back aboard, Marcus took off.

The CPF released Konovalov and his fellow mercs. The last he heard from Othello was an encrypted message transmitted to Marcus stating that they'd tailed them to an unregistered freighter which had blown orbit as soon as taking off, and Juliet had asked him to pass on how much she'd enjoyed working with him. Zyan was unsurprised by the first and amazed by the second.

They bade farewell to Marcus at Shankill – he couldn't wait, he told them, to tell Chaka about his part in what had transpired. Zyan asked him to pass on his regards to her, and everyone wished him luck on their upcoming five year tour of duty.

Two of the three suits were arrested by FSP agents – the woman managed to disappear, or the Hardesty Communications Corporation dealt with her one way or another. The men were charged with Perverting FSP Due Process, which Zyan thought sounded rather lame until Hollin informed him that it carried a mandatory life sentence – in terms of conspiracy charges, it was the Big One. Konovalov – real name McNulty, and as Zyan had guessed, not even remotely Djielese – earned himself a slot on the FSP's most wanted list. An official FSP investigation into corporate collusion was launched, and the FSRA notification against the Heptite Guild was dropped immediately. Guildmaster Dahl instructed the Guild's FSP respresentative to introduce a bill renewing the Chalician corruption probe. The timing couldn't have been better – with the evidence very much in the public eye, the bill passed, and so the Guild held up it's end of the deal with Othello.

The media dubbed the affair the Chalice Scandal. There were lawsuits. There was a perfect _storm_ of litigation, as all the major players released legal paperwork like doomed fighters pumping out chaff and flares in the path of incoming missiles. The Hardesty Communications Corporation sued the Heptite Guild, their erstwhile partners, the Chalician government and pretty much anyone who couldn't get out of their way for libel, for disclosing corporate secrets, for anything they could think of. Their partners and the Chalician government responded in kind.

The Guildmaster did nothing – he didn't need to, the FSP was doing it all for him. It took a few months for all the chips to fall, but at the end of it Chalice Prime was heaving with FSP Marines and investigators and the SCC's component parts were thoroughly into denial and damage control mode. All the corporate cases were dropped. When Thedor Bavis was elected as the very first Prime Minister of Chalice, one of his first acts was to quietly drop all the extant claims against the Heptite Guild or it's members.

Back on Ballybran, Alenda had several long conversations with Vander, during which he lied, prevaricated and claimed ignorance of the entire operation. This, of course, was no barrier to Alenda. She was able to report to the Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer that the SCC had recruited him over a year ago with the promise of rolling back reforms and restoring Singer pre-eminence, along with the promise of a sizeable payment. Given that there was no way of bringing any charges without revealing Alenda's gifts, though, Vander was allowed to go free.

Korzac was told he could work off his gambling debts cutting on inactive sites. He agreed with ill grace, and went back into the ranges solo. He did not return from his first trip out – whether he had chosen to ignore storm warnings, fallen into thrall or crashed was a matter for gloomy debate in the commons for a few days while the mach storm that had killed him raged outside. Neither he nor his sled were found when the storm cleared, and he wasn't greatly missed by anyone save his creditors.

The Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer thanked Zyan, Pharisa, Tornaz, Marin, Aviczue and Shecherzia effusively, but privately. They expressed their regret that the situation prevented any concrete expression of said thanks, but nobody really minded: they weren't exactly short of cash, after all, even Schecherzia had her fee.

Zyan delivered this to her personally, finding her at a table in a corner of the commons. She eyed him warily as he approached – he was just in off the ranges, on a supply run. The Locusts were keen to get as much black crystal cut as possible.

"Mind if I join you?" He asked.

Shecherzia made a languid gesture towards a seat. Zyan occupied it.

"Here," he handed her the voucher. "You earned it."

"I certainly did," Shecherzia replied. "It would have been nice to have been told the _whole_ plan, so I wouldn't have made a fool of myself in front of the entire galaxy."

"Sorry, I can't remember, did you get just the one offer of twenty thousand credits for an exclusive interview off the back of our little trip or was it two?" Zyan asked her. Shecherzia had indeed found herself very much back in the galactic spotlight again, thanks to her recent notoriety.

"Thirty thousand, Zyan dear. Thirty. In any case, I accepted none of the offers," Shecherzia replied haughtily.

"You've still got the fee, though," Zyan told her.

Shecherzia snorted. "Hah! Like you say, I earned it."

Zyan smiled at her. "No denying that." He stood up, then paused, not sure how exactly to frame what he was going to say. "Listen, don't be a stranger, okay? Avizcue's worried about you."

"Such a dear girl. That's nice of her, but she's no longer my bodyguard," Shecherzia replied.

"No, she's your _friend,_ " Zyan told her. "She knows you don't have a partner and that people like us thrall easily. Have you found anyone?" Zyan asked her.

Shecherzia looked like she was on the verge of a dismissive reply for a moment, then simply shook her head.

"Well, if you don't work anything else out, give us a call," Zyan offered.

"Janso may not approve," Shecherzia countered.

"Marin's okay with it," Zyan shrugged. "Everyone is, there was a vote and everything."

"How very democratic of you. Was the result unanimous, dare I ask?"

"It was, as a matter of fact. When it really mattered, you stuck your neck out for the Guild – fifty thousand isn't that much when weighed against the possibility of getting shot," Zyan informed her.

"Are you implying I'm _not_ entirely self-centered? I warn you, I shall sue," Shecherzia warned him.

"Well, I can recommend a good lawyer," Zyan told her.

"I'm sure you _could_ , you barely set foot outside of her cabin on the way back from Chalice. One could hardly fail to draw certain conclusions," Shecherzia said slyly.

"Two consenting adults in having a relationship shocker. What a scandal, how will I show my face in polite society?" Zyan replied flatly.

"I'm surprised _you_ agreed to let me into the club," Shecherzia returned to the subject.

"I trust Aviczue's judgement, and she does genuinely like you," Zyan explained.

Shecherzia looked down for a moment. "Yes, she is a very dear girl, but I certainly don't require her charity or anyone else's," she said.

"I know that. It's a two-way street: we could use someone with experience on the team – when all's said and done, we're still really new at this. We've got a big claim, yes, and it survived the storm – but at some point we're going to need to find new ones."

"Surely your contacts in the rock crab population can help?" Shecherzia asked, with wide-eyed innocence.

"How the hell did you-? Know what, never mind, I assume Aviczue told you about the crab thing," Zyan sighed.

"Do they worship you as a god?" She asked, then laughed.

"Y'know what, I was going to go on and add that the whole arguing/needling thing with you was actually kind of fun, but I'm starting to re-evaluate that to be frank."

Shecherzia snorted in laughter. "I'm sorry. Your proposal has merits. Many would say I'd be an idiot not to accept."

"The black claim won't last forever," Zyan pointed out.

"The good opinion of the Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer _will_ , though – _they_ don't forget. Not as tangible an asset as a black crystal claim, but almost certainly more valuable in the long run. They are both very fair-minded people, of course, but even such champions of meritocracy as our leading couple have favourites. Better to be associated with them than not."

" _There's_ the Shecherzia Alar I know," Zyan said.

"Don't pretend that this invitation isn't at least partly motivated by politics, Zyan," Shecherzia told him, narrow-eyed. "Let us be honest with each other."

Zyan nodded. "You know the old guard and what motivates them. We feel, given what happened with Vander, that's something we should monitor. Oh, we _will_ be co-ordinate cutting when the big claim runs out, by the way."

Shecherzia arranged a graceful shrug. "I was never as opposed to that concept as certain others."

"Which certain others would they be?" Zyan said.

"And _there's_ the Zyan Jarvis I know – plotting." Shecherzia's smile was wicked. "How much input into this decision did the Guildmaster and the Crystal Singer have?"

"I couldn't possibly say," Zyan replied.

"Hmm. Nevertheless I accept," Shecherzia told him.

Zyan grinned. "Awesome. Welcome aboard. By an unbelievable coincidence, I brought Hollin back with me. He's expecting you to drop by his quarters so he can sort out the paperwork."

"How convenient." Shecherzia raised an eyebrow.

"Isn't it? I'll catch up with you later – wheels up in one hour, if you're definitely in."

"Off to spend the hour in the company of our mysterious and enigmatic Senior Counsel?" Shecherzia asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, Shecherzia, I'm going for a drink with Alenda. This is a normal thing grown ups do together when they're dating," Zyan informed her.

"Well, have fun with the enchanting Miss Falkstrom. I'll see you in an hour, _partner,_ " Shecherzia said with a twinkle in her eye, before swishing off in the direction of Hollin's quarters.

Zyan headed to the catering slots, the lifts and then up to the Eye of the Storm, carrying two glasses of harmat. The timing was good – the storm had passed. Zyan would be heading back out into the ranges to join the rest of the Locusts soon, but first he had a promise to keep.

Alenda was waiting for him, at the same table as before. She smiled, rose as he approached, and they embraced.

 _My God she's beautiful_ , Zyan thought.

 _Flatterer,_ she responded.

"Hardly," Zyan replied, and handed her a glass of harmat. "Here's that drink I owe you."

"Thank you." They sat down. "Hmm – expensive stuff, this. What are we drinking to?"

"The Locusts no longer having an ill-auspiced number of members." Zyan told her. "There are now 14 of us."

"Excellent. Lars and Killa will be pleased CS Alar has joined your partnership. She's not uninfluential within the singer community," Alenda said, as they clinked glasses.

"And she knows where a few figurative bodies are buried, I don't doubt," Zyan said. "Vander can't have been the only disenchanted crystal singer willing to go full Faust in order to turn the clock back."

"The Heptite Guild, CS Jarvis, would never stoop to intelligence gathering operations directed at our own members," Alenda reminded him with a raised eyebrow.

"No, but we _do_ like to gossip. Shecherzia knew what the score was, anyway, I think she'll play ball," Zyan told Alenda.

Alenda merely smiled at this, but the smile slipped quickly. "Are you returning to the ranges?"

"As soon as Hollin signs Shecherzia up, we're headed out. I told her one hour," Zyan said. "Sorry."

Alenda's shoulders slumped in disappointment, but then a smile stole across her face.

"Then what, CS Jarvis, are we doing wasting time here?" She finished her drink, stood and held out her hand.

Zyan grinned, finished his drink, stood up and took her hand in his. "Very good point, Senior Counsel."

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End file.
